BARTXENNBDY 


Mr.  W.  W.  UpDeflraff, 

252)  E-  25:  a  Street, 

Fruitvale,  Calif. 


.  .y 

/  OP 

C<  •    P      vN!A 
SANTA  CRUZ 


A  MAN  ADRIFT 


A  MAN  ADRIFT 

Being 

LEAVES  FROM  A  NOMAD'S 
PORTFOLIO 

By 

BART  KENNEDY 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  fcf  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  &  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCC 


ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


£ 


TO   MY  WIFE 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
I.    FINDING   A   SHIP .  I 

II.  MY  FIRST  VOYAGE I? 

III.  ADRIFT     .........  4O 

IV.  LIFE  ON  AN  OYSTER-BOAT         .          •           .           •          .  43 
V.  FIGHTING  A   NOR'-WESTER         .          .           .           .           .  6 

VI.   ON  TRAMP .  77 

VII.   BILLY .          .          8l 

VIII.    SHOVELLING 95 

IX.    AT  SHAFT    IQ  .  IO6 

X.    IN   PRISON .  .119 

XL    NO  MONEY 144 

XII.    THROUGH  THE   ROCKIES ,152 

XIII.    MAXWELL .         172 

XIV.    SIMILAKAMEEN 19! 

XV.   THE  CHILKATS 212 

XVI.    FROM  VICTORIA  TO   NANAIMO            ....        223 
XVII.    WITH  THE  INDIANS 234 

vii 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

XVIII.   A  NEW  PHASE 245 

XIX.    EARNING  THIRTY   DOLLARS 262 

XX.    LOUNGING  THROUGH  SUNSHINE        ....  277 

XXI.   OPERATIC  FORAGERS          ....           .  298 

XXII.   HOW  I   "RAN  PROPS."      ......  308 

XXIII.  THE  BOWERY 319 

XXIV.  NO  PLACE  TO  SLEEP          .«,..,  330 


A  MAN  ADRIFT 


I.— FINDING  A  SHIP 

I  WAS  in  Liverpool,  with  just  a  shilling  in 
my  pocket,  wondering  vaguely  as  to  what 
I  would  do.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of 
January,  and  the  day,  though  cold,  was 
pleasant  and  bright.  The  clouds  sailed 
along  so  beautifully,  and  looking  up  into 
them  made  me  think  of  the  strange  lands 
I  would  like  to  visit.  I  was  young  and 
eager  to  see  things.  Here  I  was  in 
Liverpool — the  key  to  the  whole  world. 
Surely  I  would  find  a  ship  to  take  me 
somewhere  —  anywhere.  There  were 
thousands  of  them  lying  in  the  docks. 
I  had  walked  miles  and  miles  that  day, 
looking  at  them,  and  occasionally  asking 
to  be  taken  in  one  of  them.  But  the 
mates  shook  their  heads  when  I  told 

A 


2  A  Man  Adrift 

them  that  I  had  never  been  to  sea 
before.  They  wanted  men  who  knew 
the  work,  they  said.  I  was  only  a  raw 
greenhorn,  who  would  be  in  the  way ! 

But  still  I  felt  that  I  would  go  some- 
how. Some  chance  or  another  would 
turn  up.  I  had  never  seen  ships  before 
the  morning  of  that  day.  But  I  had 
thought  and  dreamed  of  them  ever  since 
I  was  a  lad.  And  now  they  seemed  so 
beautiful  to  me,  just  like  the  pictures  I 
had  of  them  in  my  mind.  They  looked 
so  calm  and  strange;  their  tall,  straight 
masts  and  their  furled  sails  and  rigging 
looked  so  fit  and  beautiful.  They  had  a 
curious  air  of  travel  and  great  distances. 
You  felt  that  they  had  come  from  places 
a  long  way  off,  and  that  they  were  going  to 
places  a  long  way  off.  About  them  was 
something  magical,  fine,  and  strange. 

I  was  without  friends  and  alone,  but 
before  me  was  the  big,  mysterious  world. 
What  it  held  for  me  I  could  not  tell,  and 
I  hardly  cared.  My  great  desire  was  to 
see  and  feel  and  experience — to  meet  new 
and  strange  phases.  To  live  is  a  fine  and 


Finding  a  Ship  3 

brave  thing,  even  if  you  have  neither  a 
penny  in  your  pocket  nor  a  home  nor 
friends.  It  is  only  the  weakling  and  the 
coward  who  is  afraid  of  life. 

The  day  wore  on.  And  the  red  of  the 
sun  lay  upon  the  broad  Mersey,  glowing 
up  and  throwing  into  odd  relief  the  cross- 
ing boats.  Soon  the  river  was  full  of 
swiftly  -  rushing  lights.  Whistles  and 
horns  were  blowing.  I  stood  and 
watched  till  darkness  had  fully  settled 
down.  The  life  of  the  river  was  full  of 
charm  and  mystery.  Where  were  the 
vessels  going,  and  what  did  they  hold, 
and  who  commanded  them  ?  Might  not 
that  big,  slow-moving  steamer  yonder- 
full  of  lights — that  loomed  calmly  along, 
be  going  to  the  far-away  Indies,  or  to 
China,  or  to  Australia?  And  the  sailing 
ship  over  there,  that  was  being  towed 
along  by  a  tug-boat?  Perhaps  it  was 
going  round  Cape  Horn,  or  around  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope,  where  tossed  the 
Phantom  Ship — the  ship  on  which  was 
laid  a  curse  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 
When  this  sailing  ship  got  outside  into 


4  A  Man  Adrift 

the  open  water  her  sails  would  spread 
out  like  the  wings  of  great,  great  birds. 
And  the  winds  would  carry  her  along 
over  the  great  sea-waters.  And  at  last 
she  would  come  to  a  port  in  some  bright 
land.  And  the  sailors  would  then  go 
ashore  and  see  things  that  were  wonder- 
ful and  full  of  a  curious  beauty.  My  mind 
was  fuJJ  of  these  thoughts  as  I  looked 
out  upon  the  river. 

At  last  I  turned  away  and  walked  tip 
towards  the  middle  of  the  town.  That 
night  I  would  find  a  cheap  place  to  sleep, 
and  on  the  morrow  I  would  look  around 
again,  and  try  and  find  a  ship.  As  I  went 
along  a  street  I  noticed  a  big  coffee-house. 
In  I  walked,  and  for  threepence  I  got  a 
big  mug  of  hot  coffee  and  some  thick 
slices  of  bread  and  butter.  Now  I  had 
ninepence,  and  for  sixpence  of  it  I  could 
get  a  bed  that  night.  During  the  day  I 
had  noticed  a  lodging-house  having  a  sign 
in  the  window  which  read  to  the  effect  that 
you  could  get  a  good  bed  there  for  six- 
pence. I  would  sleep  there  that  night, 
and  in  the  morning  I  would  still  have 


Finding  a  Ship  5 

threepence  left  for  breakfast.  Then  I 
would  set  out  again  in  my  search  for 
a  ship. 

I  was  going  along  looking  for  the  street 
I  wanted — the  street  in  which  was  the 
lodging-house.  It  was  a  little  hard  to 
find.  Suddenly,  as  I  was  turning  a 
corner,  a  voice  shouted  out,  "Hello!" 

I  wheeled  round  and  looked.  A  man 
was  standing  in  front  of  me.  "  Come 
along/1  said  he.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

I  hesitated  a  little ;  and  then  I  went 
on  with  him.  After  all  I  was  strong  and 
vigorous,  and  I  was  not  afraid  of  things. 
I  was  well  able  to  look  out  for  myself. 

The  man  seemed  to  be  half  drunk 
His  head  was  sunk  down,  his  shoulders 
were  bent,  and  his  gait  was  slow  and 
uncertain.  "  I  could  easily  knock  him 
over,  if  he  attempted  anything,"  I  thought 
to  myself. 

"Don't  be  afraid;  I'm  not  going  to  do 
anything  to  you,"  he  said,  as  if  reading 
what  was  in  my  mind. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  could,"  was  my 
comment. 


6  A  Man  Adrift 

"  Neither  do  I,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh, 
as  he  looked  me  up  and  down.  "  But 
that  isn't  the  point."  He  paused  for  a 
moment.  "You  want  to  go  to  sea!"  he 
said  suddenly. 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  I  asked.  We 
had  now  come  to  a  halt  before  a  shop 
window,  and  I  looked  full  into  his  face. 
It  was  a  round  face,  with  big,  bleared 
eyes.  Not  an  inviting  face.  There  was 
something  in  it  I  couldn't  understand.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  man  who  holds  things 
back.  "How  do  you  know?"  I  asked 
him  again. 

"  Because  I  saw  you  down  on  the  docks 
to-day.  I  saw  you  go  aboard  a  ship."  I 
looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "  If  you  want 
to  go  to  sea,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  can  put 
you  in  the  way  of  it.  I  can  take  you  to 
a  boarding-house  where  they  will  keep 
you  till  they  find  you  a  ship." 

"  But  will  they  keep  me  without  money  ?  " 
I  asked  quickly,  "  for  I  have  only  nine- 
pence.  And  will  they  be  sure  to  find  me 
a  ship?" 

"  They  will,"  he  answered.    "  And  here's 


Finding  a  Ship  7 

another  thing  I  have  to  tell  you.  It's 
next  to  impossible  for  you  to  get  a  ship 
here  in  Liverpool  without  you  are  taken 
from  a  boarding-house.  So  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  come  along  with 
me — that  is,  if  it's  a  ship  you  are  looking 
after." 

I  thought  for  a  little.  "  Well,  I  will  go 
with  you,"  I  said.  "  That  is  why  I  came 
to  Liverpool — to  get  a  ship.  It's  a 
strange  thing,  though,  that  they  have 
places  where  they  keep  a  man  for 
nothing,  and  then  find  him  one." 

"It  isn't  so  strange  as  it  looks  to  you," 
said  the  man,  with  a  laugh.  "  But  you 
are  green,  you  know,  and  you  don't  know 
the  ropes.  If  you  want  to  know  the 
reason  of  it,  it  is  because  every  man  who 
ships  gets  an  advance  note  for  two 
pounds.  This  note  isn't  paid  till  the  ship 
is  a  few  days  out  at  sea.  You  give  this 
advance  note  to  the  boarding-house 
master.  He  keeps  you  and  finds  you  an 
outfit,  and  after  you  are  safely  gone  he 
gets  the  money.  Now,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 


8  A  Man  Adrift 

I  did.  It  was  all  clear  enough.  I  was 
lucky  to  fall  so  easily  into  the  right  way 
of  things,  I  thought.  Here  was  all  the 
trouble  taken  right  off  my  shoulders.  I 
was  sure  of  getting  away.  But  I  was  a 
little  puzzled,  however,  as  to  why  a  man 
who  had  never  been  to  sea  before  should 
get  an  advance  of  two  pounds.  It  struck 
me  that  perhaps  sailors  were  scarce.  But 
I  thought  it  well  not  to  inquire  too 
closely  into  things.  One  must  not  look 
a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth. 

We  were  going  back  in  the  direction 
of  the  docks,  and  I  was  filled  with  joy 
at  the  thought  that  soon  I  would  be  on 
an  outgoing  vessel. 

Suddenly  the  man  stopped,  and 
pointed  to  a  big  public-house.  "  Let  us 
go  over  there  and  get  a  drink,"  he  said. 
"  You  tell  me  you  have  ninepence.  In 
that  case  you  might  as  well  treat  me  for 
the  trouble  I'm  taking  on  your  account." 

To  this  I  assented,  as  it  seemed  a 
reasonable  request,  and  we  went  over 
to  the  public-house,  where  my  guide  re- 
freshed himself  with  "three  of  whisky," 


Finding  a  Ship  9 

while  I  took  a  glass  of  beer.  The  whisky 
seemed  to  warm  his  feelings  towards  me, 
and  he  asked  me  a  lot  of  questions  about 
myself.  But  I  had  little  to  tell  him,  for 
my  life  so  far  had  been  most  unevent- 
ful. It  had  been  dull  and  grey,  like  the 
town  I  had  come  from.  The  last  place 
at  which  I  had  worked  was  a  mechanic's 
shop,  and  I  still  wore  my  rust-stained 
slop  and  overalls.  I  had  a  woollen  scarf 
round  my  neck,  and  wore  a  flat,  greasy, 
peaked  cap.  I  was  just  a  young  work- 
man who  was  going  out  into  the  world  to 
seek  his  fortune. 

After  we  left  the  public-house  he  let 
some  light  into  the  mystery  of  a  man 
being  able  to  get  an  advance  note  of  two 
pounds  who  had  never  been  to  sea  before. 
Ships  could  not  leave  port  without  a 
certain  complement  of  hands,  he  told  me. 
The  number  was  regulated  by  the  tonnage 
of  the  vessel.  And  on  the  day  of  sailing 
there  were  usually  one  or  two  hands  short 
It  was  then  that  the  boarding-house 
master  came  forward  with  men  he  had 
picked  up  anyhow.  Even  though  the  men 


io  A  Man  Adrift 

were  not  sailors,  the  law  was  complied 
with,  and  the  ship  was  free  to  go.  My 
guide  was  a  "  runner  "  for  a  boarding-house. 

We  turned  down  a  narrow  street  which 
ran  into  the  Docks.  "  Murphy's  board- 
ing-house is  over  there,"  said  the  man, 
pointing.  We  walked  across  the  road  to 
it,  and  he  gave  three  knocks  on  the  door. 
A  girl  let  us  in  without  saying  a  word. 
"  Is  Murphy  in  ?"  he  asked  her.  She  did 
not  reply,  but  pointed  to  a  door  at  the 
end  of  a  passage.  He  walked  to  it,  and 
pushed  it  open,  bidding  me  follow  him. 
The  room  we  entered  was  rather  a  large 
one,  and  there  were  four  men  in  it  sitting 
before  a  big  fire.  An  oil  lamp  stood  on 
the  mantel,  throwing  out  a  small  light. 
One  of  the  men  rose  up  and  turned  round. 
"  Murphy,"  said  my  guide,  addressing  him, 
"  here's  a  man  for  you."  Murphy  looked 
at  me  with  no  particular  expression  in  his 
eyes,  and  said,  "  All  right,  let  him  sit 
down."  Then  he  turned  towards  the  fire 
again.  He  was  a  man  about  fifty,  with 
a  dark  beard  and  a  pale,  hard-looking  face. 

My  guide  left  us,   after  shaking  hands 


Finding  a  Ship  n 

with  me,  and  I  began  quietly  to  study 
the  other  men.  They  were  evidently  in 
something  like  the  same  circumstances 
as  myself.  They  were  silent  when  I 
came  in,  and  they  remained  silent.  It 
was  a  strange  scene.  One  would  have 
thought  that  the  men  were  waiting  to  be 
led  out  to  undergo  some  awful  experience. 
There  was  an  air  of  subdued,  sad  expec- 
tancy about  them.  And  for  the  first  time 
that  day  I  began  to  feel  depressed.  The 
travel-pictures  in  my  mind  became  dulled. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  I  had  made  a  mistake 
in  trying  to  go  out  into  the  world !  And 
doubts  began  to  assail  me.  Was  this  the 
right  way  to  go  about  getting  a  ship  ? 
Wouldn't  it  have  been  better  to  have  kept 
on  asking  the  mates  for  a  berth  myself? 

All  at  once  Murphy  got  up  and  left 
us  without  saying  a  word.  And  then  we 
gradually  began  to  talk.  Soon  I  found 
that  my  first  surmise  was  right.  The 
men  I  was  amongst  were  not  sailors. 
They  were  simply  working-men  who 
wanted  to  get  out  to  other  parts  of  the 
world.  This  was  the  only  way  they  could 


12  A  Man  Adrift 

manage  it,  for  they  had  no  money.  One 
of  them,  a  young  fellow  from  the  country, 
spoke  of  the  difficulties  of  getting  work 
in  England.  He  hardly  liked  the  idea  of 
facing  the  ocean.  He  had  heard  that 
sailoring  was  a  hard  life — that  men  were 
often  struck  and  ill-used.  But  there  was 
nothing  else  for  it.  And  the  others 
talked  in  a  like  strain.  Times  were  hard  : 
but  the  real  reason  they  were  here  was 
because  they  were  impelled  to  move  by 
the  wandering  instinct  that  is  more  or 
less  strong  in  every  human  being  —  an 
instinct  inherited  from  a  far,  dim  past, 
when  men  wandered  over  the  face  of  the 
earth  as  hunters.  Living  through  the 
dull  grind  of  monotonous  labour  had 
quickened  it,  and  brought  it  to  the  full 
in  the  men  with  whom  I  was  now  talking. 
To  work  day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year  in  the  same 
place  and  at  the  same  thing  is  madden- 
ing. A  man  either  becomes  a  clod  or 
dangerously  thoughtful.  And  when  I 
began  to  think  of  the  work  I  had  been 
doing  for  the  last  four  years,  my  spirits 


Finding  a  Ship  13 

rose  again.  I  was  glad  to  be  on  the  eve 
of  any  change,  however  hard  it  might 
turn  out  to  be.  I  was  willing  to  dare  or 
go  through  anything.  And  the  pictures 
and  dreams  of  the  morning  when  I  was 
going  from  ship  to  ship  came  back  to 
me.  Things  would  turn  out  all  right, 
somehow. 

Murphy  came  back  after  an  hour  or 
so,  and  showed  the  four  of  us  up  to  the 
room  where  we  were  to  pass  the  night. 
There  were  some  sacks  filled  with  straw 
for  us  to  lie  on,  but  there  were  no 
blankets.  We  had  to  make  the  best  of 
it  by  putting  off  our  coats  and  covering 
ourselves  up  with  them  as  well  as  we 
could.  The  night  was  very  cold,  but  I 
hardly  minded  it  much.  I  was  thinking 
of  what  might  happen  on  the  morrow. 

When  we  came  down  in  the  morning 
we  got  some  hot  coffee,  and  a  two-pound 
loaf  of  bread  was  divided  amongst  us. 
Then  we  sat  and  talked  till  the  middle 
of  the  day.  At  about  one  o'clock  Murphy 
came  in  and  beckoned  to  me.  He  was 
a  man  who  did  not  waste  words,  this 


14  A  Man  Adrift 

Murphy.  He  came  at  once  to  the  point. 
"Off  with  your  slop  and  overalls,"  he 
said.  "  You  look  too  much  like  a 
mechanic.'1  I  obeyed  him.  Then  he 
motioned  for  me  to  follow  him  out. 
There  was  a  sailor's  bag  lying  at  the 
end  of  the  passage.  "  Take  it,  and  come 
along,"  he  said  again.  "  Your  outfit's  in 
it."  I  picked  it  up.  It  was  very  light 
and  easy  to  carry. 

We  were  soon  going  along  the  docks. 
It  was  a  day  like  the  day  before — bright 
and  clear.  "The  vessel  I'm  going  to  put 
you  on,"  said  Murphy,  "is  going  round 
Cape  Horn  to  Callao."  He  then  let 
me  know  it  was  a  steamer,  and  he  in- 
structed me  to  tell  the  mate  or  the 
purser  to  make  the  advance  note  out  to 
him  when  I  signed  as  able  seaman.  He 
gave  me  his  full  name  on  a  piece  of 
paper,  so  that  there  would  be  no  mistake. 
I  told  him  I  didn't  like  to  sign  as  an 
able  seaman,  for  I  had  never  been  to 
sea  before.  But  he  informed  me  that  if 
I  didn't  sign  as  an  A.B.  I  couldn't  go 
at  all.  "Besides,  there's  no  sailorising 


Finding  a  Ship  15 

to  be  done  aboard  a  steamer,"  he  said 
in  conclusion. 

When  we  got  to  the  steamer,  however, 
fate  was  against  me.  They  had  got  a 
man  ten  minutes  before.  So  Murphy  and 
I  trudged  back  again  to  the  boarding- 
house. 

But  the  next  day  I  was  luckier. 
Murphy  shipped  me,  along  with  two  of 
the  others,  on  the  John  Gough,  a  big 
steamer  bound  for  Philadelphia.  She 
made  the  trip  across  in  from  twelve  to 
fourteen  days.  She  carried  freight  and 
some  passengers.  When  we  were  aboard, 
the  bo'sun — a  stockily-built  man  with  a 
red  face — joked  Murphy  about  his  dry- 
land sailors  and  the  kind  of  outfit  he 
sent  them  to  sea  with.  "  What  have  you 
put  in  their  bags?"  he  asked.  But 
Murphy  took  it  calmly.  Such  things  had 
been  said  to  him  before. 

The  articles  were  signed,  Murphy  had 
gone  ashore  with  the  advance  notes,  and 
I  was  lined  up  for  muster  with  the  rest 
of  the  crew.  We  were  dismissed  after 
the  mate  had  inspected  us,  and  I  was 


1 6  A   Man  Adrift 

going  aft  for  the  fo'castle.  Both  ends 
of  the  ship  were  the  same  to  my  bewil- 
dered eye.  A  sailor  stopped  me.  "  That 
way,  Greeny,"  he  said,  pointing  forward. 
"  Go  on,  you  damned  Paddy  West,  dry- 
land sailor ! " 

I  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 
Then  I  walked  forward.  I  cared  little 
for  what  any  of  them  said  to  me.  I 
would  soon  get  to  know  my  way  about. 
And  I  was  happy.  My  dream  was 
realised.  I  was  actually  going.  I  had 
found  a  ship! 


II.— MY  FIRST  VOYAGE 


WE  were  running  swiftly  through  the 
smooth  river.  Liverpool  was  fading  off 
into  the  distance,  and  I  was  wondering 
by  what  turn  of  chance  I  should  ever  see 
it  again.  I  had  no  desire  to  go  back, 
but  the  thought  worked  idly  through  my 
mind  as  I  turned  and  looked  off  over  the 
side  of  the  great  vessel.  At  this  time  I 
was  standing  on  the  forward  deck  with 
the  sailors.  We  were  grouped  up  in 
front  of  the  two  bo'suns,  who  were  por- 
tioning us  off  into  watches.  It  fell  to 
my  lot  to  be  told  off  for  the  first  bo'sun's 
watch — the  port  watch.  He  was  the  red- 
faced  man  who  had  joked  Murphy  about 
the  outfit  he  was  sending  me  to  sea  with. 
The  outfit,  however,  was  no  joke  as  far 

as  I  was  concerned,  for  Murphy  had  put 
B 


1 8  A  Man  Adrift 

neither  oil-skins  nor  sea-boots  into  my 
bag.  Indeed,  there  was  hardly  anything 
in  it  that  was  serviceable  for  the  crossing 
of  the  North  Atlantic  Ocean  in  mid- 
winter. I  did  not  know  this  at  the 
time,  but  a  sailor  informed  me  of  it  with 
much  scorn  and  epithet,  as  he  critically 
watched  me  unpacking  my  bag  into  my 
bunk  in  the  fo'castle.  I  was  hardly 
fascinated  with  his  way  of  putting  truths, 
but  I  felt  that  the  time  was  scarcely 
ripe  for  objecting.  Besides,  I  was  »so 
filled  with  the  thought  of  being  actually 
aboard  a  ship  that  what  he  said  didn't 
trouble  me  much. 

It  had  just  gone  two  bells  in  the  first 
dog-watch  (five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon) 
when  the  word  came  for  us  to  shake 
out  the  foresail.  What  shaking  out  the 
foresail  meant  I  had  not  the  faintest 
notion.  But  I  got  ready  to  do  some- 
thing or  other.  A  couple  of  sailors 
jumped  up  into  the  fore -shrouds  and 
climbed  like  cats  up  the  rigging.  I 
paused  a  little,  and  then  I  too  jumped 
up  into  the  shrouds,  and  was  up  alongside 


My   First  Voyage          19 

them  in  no  time.  Though  I  had  never 
been  to  sea,  I  was  a  good  climber,  and 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  at  least  there  were 
sure  hand-holds  and  foot-holds  about  a 
ship.  It  was  rather  unfortunate  my  going 
up  as  I  did,  however,  for  it  <made  the 
bo'sun  and  the  rest  of  the  watch  think 
that  I  knew  my  work  as  a  sailor. 

"  Lay  out  on  the  yard  there,"  said  the 
man  to  whom  I  was  near  in  the  rigging. 
This  puzzled  me  altogether.  "  Where?" 
I  asked.  He  swore,  and  asked  me  what 
I  meant  by  coming  aloft  when  I  didn't 
know  my  duty.  I  did  not  reply  to  this, 
but  stopped  where  I  was  and  watched. 
By  this  time  six  or  seven  men  had  got 
up,  and  were  spreading  themselves  out 
on  the  yard  on  both  sides  of  the  mast. 
I  now*  grasped  what  was  meant.  The 
idea  was  to  loosen  the  close-furled  sail. 
Quickly  I  got  out  along  the  foot-rope 
with  the  rest  of  them,  and  began  to  tug 
at  the  rope  that  fastened  down  the  sail 
to  the  yard.  "  Pass  the  gasket,"  said  the 
fellow  alongside  me.  Again  I  was 
puzzled.  "That  thing  in  your  hand,"  he 


2O  A  Man  Adrift 

added  with  a  grin.  He  meant  the  rope 
I  had  been  tugging  at,  which  in  the 
meantime  had  been  taken  from  round 
the  sail  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand 
till  it  had  reached  me.  I  passed  it  to 
him,  and  then  we  all  got  down  on  deck. 
It  was  my  first  lesson  in  sailoring. 

And  as  I  stood  on  deck  with  the  rest 
of  them  I  felt  that  I  had  emerged  from 
my  first  trial  with  at  least  some  success. 
Afterwards  I  found  out  that  it  was  most 
unusual  for  a  "  Paddy  West "  sailor  to  go 
up  aloft  at  all.  Invariably  he  stuck  to 
the  deck  like  wax. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  dog-watch — six 
o'clock  —  we  went  into  the  fo'castle  to 
have  supper,  and  then  I  learned  why  it 
was  that  a  man  such  as  myself  was  called 
a  "Paddy  West"  sailor.  It  seemed  that 
one  Paddy  West,  of  Liveroool,  a  boarding- 
master,  was  notorious  for  shipping  green 
hands  as  able  seamen.  Hence  the  nick- 
name. Murphy,  who  had  shipped  me, 
was  only  one  of  the  smaller  fry  of  these 
villainous  boarding-masters.  But  Paddy 
West  had  dignified  the  calling  with  his 


My  First  Voyage         21 

name.  All  sorts  of  shady  and  wonderful 
stories  were  current  concerning  him.  He 
had  sent  "greenies"  to  sea  with  bags 
filled  with  straw  for  an  outfit  and  so  on. 

It  was  at  supper  in  the  fo'castle  that 
I  began  to  realise  that  shipping  as  an 
able  seaman  when  you  didn't  know  the 
work  might  not  turn  out  to  be  altogether 
pleasant.  I  saw  that  the  regular  sailors 
had  a  strong  animus  against  the  men 
who  did  it.  And  there  was  a  good  reason 
for  this  feeling.  They  had  to  do  the 
work  of  these  useless  men.  The  sailors 
had  not  enough  sense  of  the  relation  of 
things  to  grasp  the  fact  that  the  real 
fault  lay  with  the  shipping  companies. 
They  only  saw  and  knew  of  men  who 
had  come  aboard  under  false  pretences. 
And,  as  they  felt  they  were  wronged,  it 
was  only  human  for  them  to  make  it  as 
hot  for  these  men  as  possible. 

And  they  did  so.  One  of  them  shoved 
me  aside  when  I  reached  forward  to  take 
some  food  from  the  table.  "Don't  get 
in  a  sailorman's  way ! "  he  exclaimed, 
roughly.  I  turned  quickly  round  to  him, 


22  A  Man  Adrift 

and  would  have  got  very  much  more  in 
his  way,  but  the  strangeness  of  the  place 
and  surroundings  had  a  sort  of  quietening 
effect  on  me.  Anyway,  I  could  wait. 
It  seemed  that  the  law  of  the  fo'castle 
was  that  the  sailors  should  eat  before  the 
green  hands. 

The  supper  consisted  of  fresh  boiled 
beef,  potatoes,  soft  bread  and  butter,  and 
biscuits  and  tea.  There  was  enough  for 
everybody,  for  there  was  always  plenty 
of  food  on  an  Atlantic  liner.  It  wasn't 
the  same  as  it  was  on  a  deep-water  ship, 
where  you  got  nothing  but  your  pound 
and  your  pint.  Here  it  was  plenty  for 
everybody. 

After  supper  came  yarns  about  all  the 
lands  and  all  the  waters  of  the  world. 
The  talk  was -the  most  interesting  I  had 
ever  heard.  I  listened  breathlessly. 
Here  were  men  who  had  been  every- 
where, and  my  respect  for  them  grew  to 
such  a  pitch  that  I  almost  forgot  to  think 
about  the  sailor  who  had  shoved  me  aside 
roughly.  They  talked  in  such  an  easy 
way  about  being  in  places  thousands  of 


My   First  Voyage         23 

miles  apart.  "  When  I  was  in  Calcutta," 
one  of  them  would  say,  and  then  the  same 
man  would  perhaps  the  next  moment  say : 
"  Yes,  I  shipped  with  him  on  a  barque 
out  of  'Frisco."  Or  another  fellow  would 
say,  "  He  was  combing  the  beach  in 
Honolulu  when  I  came  across  him."  The 
whole  world  and  its  waters  had  been 
covered  by  these  few  rough  men  in  the 
fo'castle.  Listening  to  them  filled  me 
with  ambition  to  do  likewise.  At  last  I 
felt  that  I  had  found  my  true  vocation — 
to  go  on  always  wandering  from  place  to 
place. 

One  of  them  suddenly  noticed  me 
listening  eagerly.  "  Look  at  the  dry-land 
sailor,"  he  shouted,  with  a  laugh.  And 
then  came  the  yarns  about  Paddy  West. 

After  eight  bells  I  was  out  again  with 
the  watch  on  deck.  The  ship  was  still 
running  smoothly.  She  had  not  yet  got 
out  into  the  broken  water. 

The  sensation  of  being  on  a  great 
steamship  when  she  is  running  swiftly 
through  smooth  water  is  magical.  You 
feel  as  if  you  were  steadily  flying  through 


24  A  Man  Adrift 

space.  There  is  neither  jar,  nor  toss, 
nor  jerk.  You  hear  nothing  but  the  faint 
rumble  of  the  easily-working  engines. 


n 

TOWARDS  midnight  we  were  out  in  the 
broken  water.  We  were  meeting  the 
swells,  and  the  vessel  began  to  heave, 
and  the  wind  got  up.  Then  the  word 
came  for  us  to  brace  things  up  before 
turning  in  at  eight  bells.  So  we  went 
round  the  ship,  loosing  the  down-hauls, 
and  hauling  each  halyard  or  brace  tight 
in  turn.  The  foremost  man  would  slip 
the  halyard  from  off  the  belaying  pin, 
pay  it  out  behind  him,  and,  as  four  or 
five  of  us  grabbed  it,  he  would  give  out 
the  shanty  or  song.  We  would  haul  as 
we  sang,  and  haul  and  haul  till  the  bo'sun, 
who  stood  off  watching  the  sail,  blew  on 
his  pipe  for  us  to  stop.  At  this  the 
foremost  man  would  spring  forward  and 
bend  up  the  halyard  on  to  the  belaying 
pin.  When  everything  was  braced  up, 
I  was  told  off  with  another  man  to  go 


My   First  Voyage         25 

around  the  ship  and  coil  down  the  sheets 
and  halyards. 

Eight  bells  rang  out ;  the  watch  below 
came  up  on  deck  to  relieve  us ;  and  we 
went  forward  to  the  fo' castle.  I  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  sick.  Sea-sickness  had 
not  entered  into  my  calculations  when  I 
was  looking  for  a  ship  in  Liverpool.  But 
I  fought  hard  against  it.  And  when  I  got 
to  my  bunk  and  lay  flat  on  my  back,  I 
began  to  feel  better.  I  would  soon  get 
over  it,  I  thought. 

The  day  had  been  a  long  one,  and  I 
was  very  tired.  I  tried  to  think  over  all 
that  had  happened,  but  I  could  not  con- 
nect one  thing  with  another.  A  confused 
jumble  of  pictures  and  happenings  was 
passing  through  my  mind.  Now  Murphy 
was  bringing  me  aboard  —  now  I  was 
walking  along  the  docks  —  now  I  was 
hauling  on  the  halyards — now  I  could  see 
the  wideness  and  the  far  reach  of  the  sea 
— the  sea  I  had  always  dreamed  of.  The 
stars  were  reflected  in  it.  The  soft  moon- 
light was  shining  upon  it.  How  beautiful 
and  magical  it  looked,  this  sea !  And 


26  A   Man  Adrift 

then  a  face  came  near  to  mine,  a  curious, 
strange  face. 

I  fell  asleep. 

Hardly  was  I  asleep  when  a  hand  was 
on  my  shoulder.  "  Turn  out !  Turn  out ! " 
shouted  a  voice.  "  It's  eight  bells !  Turn 
out ! "  I  slowly  got  up,  and  got  into  my 
clothes  as  well  as  I  could.  The  ship  was 
now  heaving  more  than  ever,  and  I 
stumbled  heavily  against  a  stanchion. 
My  head  was  light,  and  when  I  took  a 
step  it  seemed  as  if  my  body  had  no 
weight.  But  I  managed  to  scramble  on 
deck  somehow.  Here  I  felt  a  little  better 
— cold,  raw  salt  air  revived  me.  But  when 
I  staggered  aft  with  the  rest  of  the  watch, 
I  began  to  feel  worse.  When  *I  took  a 
step  I  could  not  feel  my  feet.  I  was 
horribly  sea-sick.  The  ship  seemed  to  me 
to  be  going  all  ways  at  once.  I  would 
have  given  anything  to  have  been  able 
to  lie  down  in  my  bunk.  But  this  was 
not  to  be  thought  of  in  a  man  who  had 
shipped  before  the  mast.  I  had  signed 
as  an  able  seaman — as  one  who  was  able 
to  steer,  splice,  box  the  compass,  and  do 


My   First  Voyage         27 

other  shipmanlike  things.  And  here  was 
I  as  useless  as  a  log.  The  thought  of  it 
added  to  my  misery. 

I  was  shown  scant  sympathy  by  my 
mates  on  watch.  They  acted  impatiently 
and  brutally  towards  me.  And  this  was 
hardly  to  be  wondered  at,  for  they  had 
to  take  upon  themselves  my  share  of  the 
work.  I  had  come  aboard  under  false 
colours. 

How  I  got  through  that  watch  I  never 
knew.  I  remember  falling  down,  and  one 
of  the  men  kicking  me.  I  could  not,  of 
course,  do  anything  back,  but  I  turned 
round  so  as  to  see  his  face,  and  keep  it 
well  in  my  mind.  The  moon  at  this  time 
was  shining  brightly.  This  man  had 
kicked  me,  but  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  wait  my  time.  There  was  no  use 
of  repining,  or,  indeed,  of  saying  any- 
thing while  I  was  powerless.  And  not 
only  was  I  powerless  in  body,  but  my 
will  was  powerless,  too.  I  felt  myself 
getting  afraid.  I  began  to  be  a 
coward. 

I   was   sick  for   two  days   and   a   half, 


28  A   Man  Adrift 

during  which  time  I  had  to  do  my  four 
hours  on  and  off  with  the  rest  of  the 
watch.  All  that  time  I  could  eat  nothing, 
and  I  got  very  weak  indeed.  The  man 
who  kicked  me  was  especially  brutal. 
Some  time  after  that  he  struck  me  in  the 
face,  blackening  my  eye.  I  could  hardly 
stand  up  at  the  time,  but  I  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  said:  "You 
shouldn't  hit  a  sick  man.  Besides,  this 
sick  man  will  get  well." 

And  gradually  I  got  well.  I  believe 
thinking  of  this  man  helped  to  cure  me. 
Whenever  I  saw  him  I  smiled.  When- 
ever I  met  him  I  looked  straight  in  his 
face.  And  as  I  felt  the  power  coming 
back  to  my  limbs  I  was  filled  with  joy. 
The  time  would  soon  come! 

At  about  the  sixth  day  out,  when  we 
were  nearly  half  way  across  the  ocean,  I 
was  thoroughly  used  to  the  motion  of  the 
vessel,  though,  of  course,  I  knew  very 
little  of  the  work.  Still,  I  was  beginning 
to  be  of  use,  for  I  was  quick,  and  I  could 
haul  powerfully  on  the  halyards  and 
braces.  The  strong  air  of  the  ocean  was 


My   First  Voyage         29 

putting  a  vigour  of  life  into  me  such  as 
I  had  never  felt  before.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful sensation,  after  being  shut  up  all  one's 
life  in  a  dull,  sodden,  black  town,  to  be 
out  in  this  vast  open  of  moving  waters. 
It  was  fine  to  feel  the  clean,  fresh,  sharp 
wind  striking  full  into  the  face. 

On  the  seventh  day  out  I  felt  fit  for 
anything,  and  I  thought  the  time  had 
now  come  for  me  to  settle  matters  with 
the  sailor  who  had  struck  me  when  I  was 
sick.  It  was  our  watch  below  in  the 
fo'castle,  and  I  noticed  him  standing  near 
his  bunk.  My  eye  was  still  sore  and 
black  from  the  blow,  and  when  I  thought 
of  it  I  smiled  to  myself.  I  had  him  now. 
He  was  there,  and  I  would  see  what  he 
was  made  of.  I  looked  carefully  over 
him,  noting  where  and  how  I  would  hit 
him.  I  never  thought  that  he  might  get 
the  better  of  me.  I  just  felt  that  I  could 
annihilate  him.  I  would  like  to  kill  him 
and  pitch  him  overboard,  I  thought. 
Even  though  a  man  did  not  know  his 
work,  striking  him  when  he  was  helpless 
was  no  way  to  right  things.  And  the 


30  A   Man  Adrift 

shame  of  the  blow  swept  through  me  as 
I  walked  up  to  him  and  said : 

"You  struck  me  when  I  was  sick  and 
not  able  to  do  anything  back.  Now's 
your  time  to  strike  me  again." 

The  rest  of  the  watch,  who  were  sitting 
about  talking,  looked  at  us,  and  became 
quiet.  Something  was  going  to  happen! 
It  was  a  rare  thing  for  a  green  hand 
to  talk  in  such  a  way  to  a  sailor.  "  And 
you  kicked  me,  too,  when  I  was  sick,"  I 
said  again  to  him,  keeping  my  eye  fixed 
on  his  eye.  "  Come  on.  Don't  be  afraid." 
I  gave  him  a  push  with  my  open  hand, 
and  backed  quickly  a  couple  of  paces. 

He  said  nothing,  but  came  for  me.  I 
backed  again — it  was  a  big  fo'castle — and 
then  I  sank  myself  down  a  little  to  the 
left  and  reached  out.  It  was  a  feint. 
And  as  he  followed  over  on  that  side,  I 
turned  to  the  right  like  lightning — jumped 
— and  landed  my  fist  heavily  on  the  side 
of  his  face.  The  ship  chanced  to  be 
lurching  towards  me  at  the  instant  I 
struck,  making  the  blow  more  effective. 
He  staggered  against  the  side  of  a  bunk 


My   First  Voyage         31 

and  before  he  knew  where  he  was  I  was 
right  close  up  to  him,  pounding  him  in 
the  face  and  ribs.  The  first  blow  had 
knocked  him  stupid,  and  he  was  not  able 
to  give  me  any  return.  Besides,  I  was 
too  quick  for  him. 

And  now  he  was  down  in  a  heap,  his 
face  all  over  blood.  I  dragged  him  up 
by  the  collar,  and  asked  him  if  he  had 
had  enough.  He  had !  Dropping  him 
again,  I  turned  to  the  rest  of  the  watch 
— who  were  all  eyes — and  said  quietly, 
"  I'll  fight  the  best  man  in  this  watch." 
There  was  no  response. 


in 

AFTER  all,  there  was  not  much  real 
sailoring  to  be  done  aboard  this  steamer. 
The  main  work  was  to  keep  everything 
clean,  to  holystone  decks,  polish  brass 
work,  and  keep  the  paint  free  from  dust. 
It  is  astonishing  how  dust  collects  at  sea. 
The  steering  was  done  by  four  quarter- 
masters, and  four  men  were  selected  for 
the  lookout.  So  for  all  practical  purposes 


32  A   Man  Adrift 

I  was  as  good  a  steamship  sailor  as  any- 
one else.  I  could  push  a  holystone  with 
the  best  of  them — no  great  feat  after  all. 
And  I  could  haul  strongly  on  halyards 
and  braces.  Usually  the  sails  were  only 
put  on  the  vessel  to  keep  her  steady  in 
heavy  weather,  or  when  the  wind  was 
blowing  from  the  wrong  quarter. 

One  night  at  twelve  o'clock  a  short 
hurricane  came  down  upon  us.  I'll  never 
forget  that  night  to  the  end  of  my  life. 
It  suddenly  became  pitch  black.  The 
moon  and  stars,  which  had  been  shining 
clearly  a  moment  before,  were  blotted 
out.  There  was  nothing  for  the  watch 
on  deck  to  do  but  to  grope  slowly  along 
like  blind  men.  And  then  the  hurricane 
dropped  on  us.  It  was  as  if  the  sea  and 
the  heavens  and  the  thunders  and  the 
great  ship  suddenly  became  one  in  a 
horrible,  indescribable  uproar.  And  the 
wind  came  with  such  fury  and  force  that 
it  drove  sensation  from  the  body  and 
thought  from  the  brain.  We  could  do 
nothing  but  gasp  and  hold  on  to  some- 
thing with  the  death-clutch,  and  bend 


My   First  Voyage         33 

down  our  heads  so  as  to  get  a  chance  to 
breathe,  for  the  force  of  the  wind  striking 
a  man  in  the  face  would  choke  him.  And 
if  he  let  go  what  he  was  clutching  on  to, 
he  would  be  dashed  down. 

All  this  was  going  on  in  blind  dark- 
ness. I  was  gasping  and  shrinking  and 
clutching.  The  end  of  things  had  come ! 
Immense  seas  were  sweeping  over  the 
ship.  I  was  so  stunned  that  I  did  not 
even  feel  fear.  I  was  just  a  blind, 
clutching  thing,  from  which  sensation 
had  been  suddenly  driven. 

All  at  once  the  hurricane  died  down. 
Its  end  was  nearly  as  sudden  as  its  be- 
ginning. It  had  only  lasted  a  few 
minutes.  And  the  stars  and  moon  came 
out  again,  shining  clearly.  But  the  seas 
were  with  us — the  gigantic,  sweeping, 
awful  seas.  The  hurricane  had  swept 
out  into  the  distance — a  flying,  tre- 
mendous, shapeless  thing  of  destruction. 

All  through  the  next  day  we  strained 
through  these  terrible  seas — as  if  we 
were  following  in  the  wake  of  the  hurri- 
cane. The  forward-deck  had  become 
c 


34  A  Man  Adrift 

most  dangerous.  One  had  to  wait  amid- 
ships at  the  beginning  of  the  main-deck 
and  watch  for  the  instant  when  the  ship 
settled  down  and  became  steady.  Then 
was  the  time  to  make  the  dash  along  the 
deck  for  the  fo'castle.  The  ship  only  re- 
mained steady  for  three  or  four  seconds,  and 
if  one  waited  too  long  the  sea  would  again 
be  thundering  over  the  deck.  If  a  man  were 
caught  in  it,  he  would  be  swept  overboard. 
And  once  overboard,  he  could  never  be  got 
again.  No  boat  could  be  sent  after  him. 

I  had  the  bad  luck  to  be  caught  in 
one  of  these  seas.  I  had  just  come  from 
the  cook's  galley  with  a  kid  full  of 
potatoes  and  meat  for  the  watch's 
supper.  I  waited  amidships  at  the  main 
deck  for  the  vessel  to  steady  herself 
before  I  made  my  dash  forward  for 
the  fo'castle.  As  she  steadied,  I  dashed 
along  the  fore-deck,  but  I  had  hardly 
got  three-parts  of  the  way  when  I 
slipped  down.  I  got  up,  but  I  slipped 
again,  and  this  time,  before  I  could 
recover  myself,  the  sea  was  upon  me. 
Where  the  kid  and  potatoes  and  meat 


My   First  Voyage         35 

went  to  I  don't  know,  but  I  was  picked 
up  and  swept  against  the  foremast  as 
if  I  were  a  cork.  I  flung  out  my  arms 
and  clutched  the  fore-halyard  for  my  life. 
And  I  twined  my  legs,  too,  around  the 
big,  stiff  rope.  There  I  stuck.  But 
again  a  sea  thundered  over  the  deck. 
It  struck  me,  and  washed  me  from  my 
clutch  on  the  halyard  as  if  I  were  but  a 
feather  that  was  lying  against  it.  The 
awful  force  of  the  water  did  not  strike 
in  a  straight  direction,  but  it  seemed  to 
whirl  in  a  sort  of  circle,  spinning  me 
round  and  round  like  a  top.  Strangely 
enough,  I  kept  my  senses,  though  I  felt 
that  I  must  be  overboard.  The  water 
was  boiling  and  fighting  over  and  around 
me,  when  suddenly  I  struck  against  some- 
thing hard.  Then  the  next  instant  I  was 
heaved  up  clear  out  of  the  water,  and  I 
found,  to  my  utter  surprise,  that  I  was 
still  on  board.  By  a  miracle  I  had  been 
swept  into  the  lee  scupper,  and  kept  there 
I  don't  know  how.  I  crawled  down  into 
the  fo 'castle.  I  was  glad  to  be  alive. 
Many  a  poor  fellow  has  met  his  death 


36  A  Man  Adrift 

by  being  caught  and  carried  overboard 
in  a  heavy  sea.  Occasionally  the  sailors 
used  to  tell  of  it  in  their  watch  below. 
How  poor  Tom  was  carried  off,  and  never 
got  again,  in  a  big  blow  as  they  were 
rounding  the  Horn,  or  how  poor  Bill 
was  gone  overboard  an  hour  before  he 
was  missed  at  all !  There  was  not  a 
sailor  in  the  fo'castle  who  had  not  an 
actual  first-hand  knowledge  of  some 
such  sad  experience.  Some  told  of 
chums  who  had  gone  out  suddenly  into 
violent  death.  Lowering  a  boat  for  a 
man  was  rarely  ever  of  use  in  rough 
weather,  though  a  boat  was  always  got 
out  if  it  were  humanly  possible.  In  the 
winter  time  the  North  Atlantic,  or  the 
Western  Ocean,  as  the  sailors  called  it, 
was  of  all  the  oceans  of  the  world  the 
most  dangerous  and  ugly  in  this  respect. 
Squalls  and  short  hurricanes  were  in- 
cessantly springing  up  in  it.  And  it  was 
so  terribly  cold.  In  fact,  in  the  winter 
time  some  sailors  would  not  ship  for  a 
trip  across  it  at  any  price. 

At  last  we  were  off  the  banks  of  New- 


My   First  Voyage         37 

foundland.  The  weather  had  moderated, 
and  the  fogs  which  usually  lie  here  in 
the  winter  had  lifted.  It  was  a  relief 
to  feel  the  vessel  running  with  some- 
thing like  smoothness  after  its  heaving 
and  stressing  through  the  heavy  weather. 
It  had  grown  much  colder ;  the  halyards 
and  braces  were  bedded  in  ice.  But  I 
did  not  mind  that  much,  for  one  of  the 
sailors  had  given  me  some  socks  and 
mittens ;  and  the  bo'sun  had  given  me 
an  old  pea-jacket  that  was  very  warm. 
My  fight  with  the  sailor  had  created  a 
favourable  impression  on  my  behalf.  I 
was  green,  they  said,  but  still  I  must 
have  something  in  me,  and  in  time  I 
would  make  a  good  sailor-man ! 

We  first  sighted  land  one  morning  at 
sunrise.  It  came  up  on  the  horizon  away 
off  on  the  port-bow.  We  were  holy 
stoning  decks  at  the  time,  and  one 
of  the  sailors  said  to  me :  "  There's 
America ! "  I  looked  at  the  low-lying, 
dark  line.  The  voyage  would  soon  be 
over  now!  The  thought  filled  me  with 
joy,  but  with  the  joy  was  a  tinge  of  regret 


38  A  Man  Adrift 

at  leaving  the  ship.  I  was  getting  used 
to  it.  It  was  so  fine  to  feel  the  press 
of  the  great,  strong  winds,  to  see  the 
vast,  heaving  stretch  of  the  ocean.  There 
were  times  when  it  brought  terror,  but 
still  I  loved  it.  It  appealed  to  something 
that  was  in  my  blood — to  some  instinct  I 
had  inherited.  The  great,  free  ocean ! 

And  here  was  the  land !  one  of  the 
lands  I  had  dreamed  of  when  I  was  a 
boy.  It  was  becoming  clearer  and 
clearer,  this  land  that  at  first  crept  up 
on  the  horizon  as  a  faint,  dark  line. 

It  was  cold,  but  the  morning  was  most 
beautiful.  The  sky  was  so  blue  and 
clear,  and  the  sun,  which  was  well  up 
now,  was  shining  with  a  searching, 
northern  softness.  The  strange,  clear 
beauty  of  the  morning,  and  the  sight  of 
the  land  off  in  the  distance,  brought  to 
me  a  moment  of  curious,  intense  feeling. 
It  was  a  higher  and  more  acute  feeling 
than  that  of  happiness.  In  it  was  sad- 
ness and  joy  and  everything.  It  was  as 
if  I  had  suddenly  realised  in  this  scene 
of  ocean,  air,  and  land  all  the  longings 


My   First  Voyage         39 

and  wishes  of  my  life.  I  had  come  to 
it  through  suffering.  I  was  but  a  com- 
mon hand  working  on  the  ship,  but  to 
me  came  this  glorious,  strange  moment. 

The  next  day  and  the  day  after 
that  we  ran  along  favoured  with  calm 
weather.  The  voyage  was  nearing  its 
close.  And  soon  the  pilot  came  aboard, 
and  then  in  a  few  hours  we  were  grind- 
ing, grinding  our  way  through  the  thick 
floating  ice  of  the  Delaware  River.  Off 
from  the  bank  of  the  river  stretched  a 
country  that  was  winter-bound.  It  was 
cold  and  hard-looking,  this  country,  but 
I  was  glad  to  see  it.  For  who  could  tell 
what  it  held  in  store  for  me? 

And  now  we  were  tied  up  to  the  wharf. 
We  were  in  Philadelphia.  The  voyage 
was  over.  Busy  men  were  rushing  about 
shouting  English  in  a  curious  flat  accent. 

The  next  morning  I  left  the  ship  for 
good.  It  was  on  a  Sunday.  And  as  I 
walked  through  the  streets  of  Philadel- 
phia I  felt  strong  and  hopeful,  though 
I  had  not  a  penny  in  my  pocket.  A 
new  world  was  before  me. 


III.— ADRIFT 

THE  magic  of  a  great  town ! 

A  man  goes  into  it  when  he  is  hard  up 
and  lonely  and  wearing  shabby  clothes, 
and  he  is  touched  with  the  general  move- 
ment, and  the  ever-passing  crowds  and 
the  bright,  tempting  displays  in  the  shop 
windows,  and  the  long,  clean  streets. 
The  curious,  mighty  magnetism  of  the 
town  possesses  him.  He  has  been  off 
in  small,  lonesome  places,  looking  for 
work,  or  he  has  been  working  his  way 
hither  and  thither,  making  a  bare  exist- 
ence by  the  doing  of  stray,  odd  jobs.  Or 
he  may  have  been  going  along  over  bare, 
winding  country  roads  that  seemed  to 
go  on  without  end  for  ever.  He  has 
been  so  long  communing  with  himself 
that  he  feels  the  need  of  contact  with 
other  human  beings.  He  wishes  to  be 
near  people  and  to  hear  their  voices,  even 
if  he  may  not  speak  to  them.  The  people 
40 


Adrift  41 

he  has  seen  off  from  the  town  have  been 
but  stray  and  passing,  even  as  •  himself. 
Lone  ships  that  move  on  and  on  till  they 
are  lost  in  the  dread,  mysterious  distance. 

Men  who  are  adrift. 

It  may  be  that  a  man  has  come  from 
some  foreign  place  where  things  have 
gone  hard  with  him.  He  is  now  ap- 
proaching the  great  town  of  his  native 
land,  and  he  is  thrilled,  for  here  at  last 
is  something  that  is  akin  to  him.  Vague 
though  it  be,  this  kinship  has  for  him  a 
warmth  and  a  sense  of  rest.  The  people 
who  knew  him  once  may  be  dead  or 
gone,  or  may  not  know  him.  But  still 
there  is  for  him  the  town.  The  town 
that  was  here  long,  long  before  him  ;  the 
town  that  will  last  long,  long  after  he 
has  crumbled  and  gone  to  dust.  The 
town  that  is  his  town,  even  as  it  is  the 
town  of  him  who  is  fine  and  great. 

Or  it  may  be  that  a  man  is  one  who 
may  not  go  back  again  to  his  native 
place.  Now  he  is  approaching  a  strange 
town—but  still  a  town.  He  is  glad  to 
get  to  it,  even  though  he  be  penniless. 


42  A  Man  Adrift 

Even  though  he  must  face  strangers. 
How  glad  he  will  be  to  see  the  spires  of 
its  churches  arising  in  the  distance! 
How  glad  he  will  be  to  hear,  far  away, 
the  faint,  faint  sound  of  its  mighty  life. 
It  is  far  off,  this  town — but  he  is  coming 
to  it!  He  is  coming  to  it. 

And  who  knows  what  chance  may  do 
for  him  ?  Who  knows  what  may  happen 
to  him  through  the  magic  of  circum- 
stance ?  He  may,  in  a  street,  find  a 
purse  of  gold.  Then  he  will  go  and 
buy  himself  a  good  dinner,  and  new,  fine 
clothes.  He  will  stretch  himself  in  the 
fulness  of  the  pleasure  of  life.  In  the 
life  of  the  town !  Yes,  give  him  the 
town!  The  town  where  no  one  knows 
him — where  no  one  knows  of  what  he 
has  done — where  he  may  begin  a  new 
life — where  fortune  may  await  him.  And  > 
he  goes  on  with  firm  stride.  Soon  he  will 
see  the  spires  arising  in  the  distance. 

The  magic  of  a  great  town! 


IV.— LIFE  ON  AN   OYSTER-BOAT 


AFTER  many  days  tramping  I  found  my- 
self in  the  city  of  Baltimore.  Here  I 
shipped  on  an  oyster-boat  to  dredge  for 
oysters  in  the  Chesapeake  Bay.  The 
wages  were  fifteen  dollars  a  month,  and 
one  had  to  ship  for  a  month  at  least. 
And  you  were  bound  by  the  same  laws 
and  rules  that  you  would  be  bound  by  if 
you  shipped  on  a  deep-water  vessel  that 
was  going  to  round  the  Horn — "Cape 
Stiff,"  as  the  sailors  call  it.  You  were 
the  captain's  machine — his  slave.  He 
had  power  to  strike  or  shoot  you  if  he 
thought  it  necessary. 

I  shipped  on  a  small  schooner,  and 
sailed  down  the  bay. 

On  the  way  down  to  the  dredging 
grounds  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sail  the  schooner,  which  was  an  easy 
43 


44  A  Man  Adrift 

task,  as  there  were,  all  told,  ten  men 
aboard.  It  took  us  two  days  to  get 
down,  on  account  of  head  winds. 

A  word  about  the  dredging  outfit  of  our 
schooner.  She  had  two  crab-winches 
amidships  on  the  port  and  starboard 
sides  for  winding  in  the  dredges  when 
they  had  filled  with  oysters.  It  took 
four  men  to  a  winch.  Fastened  to  a 
stout,  fifteen-fathom  rope,  a  dredge  lay 
on  either  side  near  the  gunwale.  In 
working  time  these  were  put  in  readi- 
ness to  be  heaved  overboard  at  a  word 
from  the  captain,  who  then  steered  the 
boat  The  gunwales  were  cut  away,  and 
rollers  put  on  a  level  with  the  planking 
of  the  deck,  so  as  to  allow  the  dredges 
to  pass  easily.  The  dredge  was  trian- 
gular in  shape,  and  was  simply  a  strong 
iron  frame  with  a  steel  chain  bag  pend- 
ing from  the  large  end.  Across  the 
mouth  of  the  bag  was  a  steel  bar,  in 
which  was  a  row  of  long,  sharp  teeth. 
These  scraped  in  the  oysters  as  the 
dredge  dragged  over  the  bed.  Each 
man  was  armed  with  a  "  culling  hammer," 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     45 

a  hammer  with  a  long,  narrow  head  and 
a  long  shaft,  which  he  used  for  breaking 
off  extra  shells  that  were  stuck  to  the 
oysters,  and  for  separating  the  oysters 
from  the  loose  shells  when  the  contents 
of  the  dredge  were  dumped  on  deck. 

One  day's  work  was  much  the  same 
as  another. 

About  an  hour  before  dawn,  the  cook, 
who  lived  aft  with  the  captain  in  the 
cabin,  would  come  forward  to  the 
fo'castle,  where  we  slept,  huddled  to- 
gether like  rats,  and  inform  us  that  the 
time  had  arrived  for  us  to  sally  forth  to 
toil.  Reluctantly  and  unjoyfully,  we 
would  arise  at  the  sound  of  the  cook's 
voice  and  put  on  our  clothes — that  is, 
if  we  had  been  warm  enough  the  night 
before  to  take  them  off.  Blankets  were 
scarce.  The  captain  didn't  care  whether 
we  froze  to  death  or  not.  All  he  cared 
for  was  to  get  work  out  of  us. 

After  creeping  shiveringly  out  of  the 
manhole  and  on  to  the  deck,  our  first 
job  was  to  haul  up  the  anchor  and  loose 
the  sails.  We  anchored  every  night  in 


46  A  Man  Adrift 

any  small  bay  or  cove  that  came  nearest 
or  handiest.  Getting  up  the  anchor  was 
always  a  terrible  job,  because  of  the  raw, 
damp  winter  wind  which  was  usually 
blowing  before  daylight. 

"Breakfast!"  the  cook  would  shout, 
and  one  by  one  we  would  file  into  the 
cabin  to  eat. 

Whilst  breakfast,  which  usually  con- 
sisted of  codfish-hash,  bread,  and  coffee, 
was  being  doled  out  in  detail,  the  schooner 
would  be  making  all  speed  for  the  dredg- 
ing ground.  Arrived  there,  we  would 
get  to  our  places  at  the  winches. 

"  Heave ! "  from  the  captain  at  the 
wheel,  and  splash  !  would  go  both  dredges 
simultaneously,  as  a  man  from  either 
side  heaved  them  overboard.  The  speed 
of  the  schooner  checked  considerably  as 
the  dredges  dragged  over  the  oyster  bed, 
gradually  filling  with  oysters,  which  were 
scraped  into  the  chain  bags  by  the  tooth- 
bars. 

"Wind!"  the  captain  would  command 
when  the  dredges  had  passed  over  the 
whole  width  of  the  bed. 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     47 

With  a  will  the  whole  of  us  would 
suddenly  bend  our  strength  upon  the 
handles  of  the  winches,  and  wind  with 
all  our  might  and  main.  During  the 
winding  the  schooner  would  be  tossing 
about  like  a  feather  and  shipping  seas. 
It  is  well  to  remark  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  don't  know  that  the  short 
choppy  seas  of  a  shallow  bay  are  harder 
to  contend  with  than  are  the  gigantic, 
awful  swells  that  are  to  be  met  with  in 
mid  -  ocean.  Proportionately,  there  are 
more  ships  lost  in  the  shallow,  choppy 
waters  of  the  North  Sea  than  anywhere 
else. 

Oh,  the  terror  of  that  awful  winding! 
I'd  sooner  help  to  take  in  frozen  sails  in 
a  gale  off  Cape  Horn.  Every  nerve, 
muscle,  and  breath  was  strained  to  the 
tightest  possible  tension.  If  a  man  slacked 
up  the  least  bit  it  was  instantly  felt  by  the 
rest.  All  had  to  fuse  their  strength  into 
one  desperate  whole.  The  cold  seas 
washed  us  from  head  to  foot,  but  in  the 
horrible  strain  we  didn't  notice  it.  Wind ! 
wind !  wind !  Would  the  internal  strain 


48  A  Man  Adrift 

never  cease  ?  It  seemed  as  if  every  fibre 
in  a  man  were  cracking.  I  had  never 
felt  anything  like  it  before — nor  have  I 
since,  though  I  have  done  the  hardest  and 
roughest  sort  of  labouring. 

Up!  up!  At  last  the  necks  of  the 
dredges  appeared  above  the  gunwale 
rollers.  Up  !  up !  and  they  were  on  deck, 
and  their  contents  dumped  out  in  a  heap. 
Then  we  fell  on  our  knees  and  com- 
menced to  separate  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible the  oysters  from  the  loose  shells, 
flinging  the  oysters  behind  us  to  form  a 
pile.  Any  extra  shells  that  were  sticking 
to  them  we  broke  off  with  our  "  culling 
hammers."  As  soon  as  we  had  got  all 
the  oysters  out  of  the  heap  we  quickly 
shovelled  the  loose  shells,  the  stones,  and 
the  seaweed  overboard.  "  Culling,"  as  we 
called  the  picking  out  of  the  oysters,  was 
a  soft  of  rest  after  the  terror  of  the  wind- 
ing. By  the  time  we  had  got  out  all  the 
oysters,  or,  usually,  a  little  before  it,  the 
captain  had  put  the  boat  about — so  as 
to  cross  the  oyster  bed  again — and  was 
ready  to  give  the  word  to  heave  the 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     49 

dredges  overboard.  Thus  we  never  got  a 
real  breathing  spell. 

Again  would  corr.e  the  terrible  winding, 
and  again  would  come  the  culling. 

This  awful  work  would  continue  with- 
out a  break  up  to  sundown,  barring  a  few 
moments  we  got  to  snatch  a  bite  of  food. 
At  sundown  we  made  fast  the  dredges, 
washed  up  the  deck,  and  made  for  the 
nearest  cove  or  harbour.  Arriving  there, 
we  let  go  the  anchor,  and  took  in  and 
furled  the  sails.  After  that  came  supper, 
and  then  we  filed,  wet,  weary,  and  de- 
jected, into  the  fo'castle.  The  day  was 
ended. 


II 

STILL,  there  were  fine  moments  in  the 
life,  as  there  are  fine  moments  in  all 
lives,  however  sad  or  hard  they  may  be. 
It  was  fine  to  stand  on  the  foredeck  of 
the  little  schooner  and  feel  her  rushing 
towards  the  harbour  when  our  day's  work 
was  done.  It  gave  one  a  sense  of  rest,  a 

sense  of  peace.     The  jib  of  the  schooner 
D 


50  A  Man  Adrift 

stood  out  like  the  wing  of  a  giant  bat. 
I  used  to  think  and  wonder  about  many 
things  then.  I  used  to  wonder  how  long 
I  would  be  a  dredger.  Though  the  life 
was  hard,  still  in  a  sort  of  a  way  it  ap- 
pealed to  me.  Being  faced  with  grim, 
iron  facts  has  a  charm  of  its  own. 

The  dredgers  had  a  saying  that  if  you 
ever  once  got  the  dredging-mud  on  you 
you  would  always  come  back  to  it  again. 
And,  indeed,  there  were  fellows  who  had 
been  at  it  years  and  years.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  every  oyster  season  they  would 
turn  up  in  Baltimore,  and  greet  each 
other,  and  compare  notes  as  to  what  they 
had  been  doing  since  the  last  season. 

Often  there  were  black  tragedies  in 
the  life.  Bodies  of  men  were  found 
floating  in  the  Bay.  They  had  been 
murdered  and  pitched  overboard  by  the 
captains  and  mates. 

As  a  rule,  the  captains  were  a  lot 
of  brutal  bullies.  If  a  man  didn't  have 
the  fighting  instinct  strong  in  him  he 
was  very  apt  to  get  knocked  about  If 
you  sailed  down  the  Bay  with  some 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat      51 

captains  you  had  to  be  ready  to  go 
the  whole  length  of  the  rope.  You 
had  to  be  ready  to  out  with  your 
sheath-knife  and  give  the  whole  blade 
of  it  into  the  mate  or  captain  who 
offered  to  strike  you.  In  no  other 
way  could  you  keep  up  your  style  as 
a  man.  Fighting  back  with  your  fists 
wouldn't  be  worth  a  rap.  You  would 
be  knocked  flat  with  the  butt  of  a 
revolver,  and  like  enough  get  the 
life  kicked  out  of  you.  Some  captains 
used  to  have  loaded  revolvers  lying 
within  grasp  while  the  men  were 
actually  working  over  the  oyster  bed. 
There  were  laws,  to  be  sure,  against 
the  ill-using  and  killing  of  men,  but 
the  laws  didn't  work. 

A  word  as  to  the  way  we  used  to 
get  our  food.  First  the  captain  and 
the  mate  would  eat.  They,  of  course, 
would  have  clean  plates  and  clean  knives 
and  forks.  When  they  had  finished  eat- 
ing, two  of  the  men  would  be  called  in. 
and  the  cook  would  ladle  out  the  food 
for  them  on  to  the  plates  that  the 


52  A  Man  Adrift 

captain  and  the  mate  had  just  used. 
When  these  men  had  finished,  two 
others  would  be  called  in ;  and  so  on, 
till  every  one  on  board  had  eaten. 
During  the  whole  course  of  the  meal 
the  two  plates  and  the  knives  and  forks 
would  not  be  washed.  You  had  to  eat 
from  the  dirty  plate  of  another  man,  or 
two  other  men,  or  four  other  men,  as 
the  case  may  be.  If  you  were  out  of 
favour  with  the  captain,  you  were  kept 
till  the  last.  The  idea  was  to  take  up 
as  little  time  as  possible  in  eating,  and 
to  save  the  cook  trouble. 

I  remember  getting  into  a  row  over 
this  custom  on  one  boat  I  was  on.  The 
cook  was  called  Scotty.  He  was  a  mean- 
looking  little  sailor  man,  with  a  scarred 
face,  and  hard  eyes.  He  was  the  captain's 
toady.  But  for  all  that,  he  was  a  stout, 
hard  little  block  of  a  fellow,  who  would 
fight  till  he  dropped.  For  some  reason  or 
another,  he  didn't  like  me,  and  I  didn't 
like  him.  We  used  to  scowl  at  each  other 
now  and  then.  One  morning  I  came  aft 
into  the  cabin  for  breakfast — I  believe  I 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     53 

was  one  of  the  last  two  men — and  sud- 
denly a  sense  of  revolt  filled  me  at  the 
sight  of  the  dirty  plate  I  had  to  eat  off. 
Why  should  I  be  a  dog  any  more,  I 
thought  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  have  a  clean 
plate  like  a  man?  I  turned  to  Scotty, 
who  stood  scowling  at  me,  and  I  asked 
him  roughly  why  he  didn't  give  me  a 
clean  plate.  Scotty  was  so  surprised  at 
my  asking  this  that  the  scowl  left  his 
face.  He  was  dumfounded.  It  was  as 
if  a  dog  had  spoken.  Scotty  lived  aft 
with  the  captain  in  the  cabin,  while  I 
was  only  an'  ordinary  dredger,  who  lived 
forward  in  the  forepeak.  The  cheek  of 
my  asking  for  a  clean  plate  was  some- 
thing unspeakable.  And  rage  took  the 
place  of  surprise.  He  swore  at  me 
horribly.  He  would  show  me,  he  said, 
and  he  raised  his  fist  to  strike  me.  He 
knew  he  would  have  the  captain  and  the 
mate  at  his  back.  Besides,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  a  plucky  little  fellow.  But 
I  had  had  enough  of  the  whole  thing.  I 
determined  to  take  chances — if  necessary 
— on  getting  a  long  drop  and  a  scragging 


54  A  Man  Adrift 

rope.  If  I  fought  I'd  have  to  go  to  the 
whole  hog.  The  chances  were  I'd  get 
shot.  If  I  killed  anyone,  there  was  no 
chance  at  all  about  it.  I'd  get  hung. 

But  my  blood  was  up. 

As  Scotty  raised  his  fist  to  strike  me, 
I  rose  suddenly  and  let  him  have  a 
swinging  blow  full  in  the  mouth.  His 
head  struck  against  the  bulking  of  the 
cabin.  And  I  rained  half-arm  punches 
on  his  face  till  it  was  a  mass  of  blood. 
He  fought  me  as  well  as  he  could,  but 
I  was  a  much  bigger  and  stronger  man. 
He  hadn't  the  ghost  of  a*  show.  And 
all  the  time  I  was  punching  him  I  felt 
I  was  fighting  with  a  rope  round  my 
neck,  and  when  that's  the  case  a  man 
might  as  well  go  in  for  a  sheep  as 
for  a  lamb. 

And  the  whole  infernal  degradation  of 
the  life  broke  in  on  me  like  a  lightning- 
flash  while  I  was  fighting.  I  thought 
I  might  as  well  end  it.  And  I  tried 
to  kill  Scotty. 

But  he  got  away  from  me  up  the  cabin 
steps  and  on  to  the  deck.  He  realised 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     55 

that  he  was  in  danger  of  his  life,  and 
the  animal  instinct  to  save  himself  came 
uppermost  in  him.  The  fight  had  been 
knocked  out  of  him. 

I  followed  him  up  on  deck,  where  I 
was  faced  with  the  captain  and  the  mate. 
But  I  was  ready  for  them,  too — and 
seeing  that  I  was  ready  they  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  easiest  way  out  of 
it  was  the  best.  The  captain  calmed 
things  down.  I  suppose  it  dawned  upon 
him  that  it  was  no  joke  doing  a  man  up 
who  was  ready  to  fight  for  all  he  was 
worth.  During  the  whole  affair  the  men 
— my  mates — stood  in  a  group  forward. 
They  didn't  offer  to  interfere. 

After  that  I  always  got  a  clean  plate. 

The  dredging  season  began  in  October 
and  ended  in  March — the  six  coldest  and 
hardest  months  of  the  year.  Once  I  was 
on  a  sloop  that  was  frozen  up  in  solid 
ice  for  nearly  a  month.  Then  we  had  a 
good  time.  Nothing  to  do  but  to  eat 
and  sleep  and  go  ashore  occasionally 
for  water.  We  were  anchored  about  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  shore,  and  we 


56  A  Man  Adrift 

had  cut  a  channel  through  the  ice,  so 
as  to  get  the  little  yawl  backward  and 
forward.  One  afternoon  another  fellow 
and  myself  got  the  yawl  ashore,  so  as 
to  bring  aboard  a  barrel  of  water  and 
some  flour  and  bacon.  It  was  freezing 
very  hard.  We  loaded  up  the  yawl,  and 
began  to  work  our  way  back  to  the  sloop, 
but  when  we  had  got  about  half  way 
we  were  blocked  up.  The  loose  ice  float- 
ing in  the  channel  had  become  frozen 
together.  We  worked  for  an  hour,  and 
made  hardly  any  headway.  And  one 
hour  reached  into  two  hours,  and  two 
hours  into  three  hours.  Then  we  saw 
that  perhaps  we  couldn't  make  the  sloop 
that  night.  So  we  thought  it  better  to 
make  for  the  shore  again.  But  in  this 
we  were  stopped,  too.  The  loose  ice 
had  frozen  together  behind  us.  Nor 
could  we  land  on  the  ice  on  either  side 
of  us,  for  the  reason  that  there  were 
large  pieces  of  loose  ice  on  both  sides 
of  the  yawl,  and  stepping  on  them  would 
mean  falling  into  the  water,  which  would 
mean  death.  The  lads  on  the  sloop  kept 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat      57 

shouting  to  us  from  time  to  time  to  cheer 
us  up.  But  we  were  getting  anxious. 
If  we  had  to  stay  in  the  yawl  through 
the  night  it  would  mean  that  we  should 
be  frozen  stiff  by  morning.  And  now 
darkness  and  night  had  come  upon  us. 
We  worked  on  and  on,  smashing  at  the 
ice  with  our  oars.  And  after  what  seemed 
to  me  an  eternity  the  ice  slowly  began  to 
move.  We  fought  it  foot  by  foot  along 
the  channel  to  the  sloop.  They  had  put 
lights  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin,  so  that 
the  reflections  would  show  us  where  to 
strike  at  the  ice.  At  last  we  got  near 
enough  for  them  to  throw  us  a  rope, 
which  we  made  fast  to  the  yawl,  and 
then,  with  the  help  of  their  tugging,  we 
got  alongside  the  sloop.  They  pulled  us 
aboard,  and  gave  us  a  big  stiff  drink  of 
whisky,  which  fixed  us  up  all  right.  It 
was  midnight.  It  had  taken  us  about 
eight  hours  to  go  a  hundred  yards. 

On  Saturday  nights  we  would  go  to 
Cambridge — a  little  town  on  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  Bay — and  tie  up  till  Monday 


58  A  Man  Adrift 

morning.  Then  we  would  get  an  advance 
perhaps  of  a  dollar  apiece  from  the  cap- 
tain. Armed  with  this  we  would  go  up 
into  the  town  to  have  a  good  time.  You 
could  buy  a  lot  of  whisky  in  Cambridge 
for  a  dollar.  And  whisky  is  what  we  all 
bought.  In  other  words,  we  used  to  get 
drunk.  Then  we  used  to  fight  with  one 
another,  or  fight  with  the  police,  if  they 
tried  to  interfere  with  us.  We  were 
looked  upon  as  the  scourings  of  the 
earth — which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
were.  The  dredgings  of  the  earth.  We 
were  a  bad  lot.  But  we  weren't  too  bad 
to  do  the  beastly  work  of  dredging.  Yes, 
we  used  to  get  drunk.  And  why  not  ? 
It  was  the  only  thing  left  open  for  us. 
We  were  a  dirty,  rough  lot 'of  uncouth 
men,  we  dredgers. 

Years  and  years  have  gone  by  since 
that  time,  but  the  faces  of  the  men,  the 
dredgers  I  knew,  are  still  clear  in  my 
memory.  Aye,  their  hard,  weather-worn 
faces  rise  before  me.  Where  are  they 
now?  Where  are  they  gone?  Drudges 
of  a  dredge.  Where  are  they  ?  Nobody 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     59 

knows  and  nobody  cares.  Poor  human 
driftage!  Dogs  for  everyone  to  throw  a 
stone  at.  I  have  an  affection  for  them 
all.  My  comrades  in  hardship  and 
misery.  There  is  nothing  brings  men 
so  close  together.  Aye,  I  have  a  fond- 
ness for  them  all.  Even  poor  little 
Scotty,  whom  I  fought  with,  I  would  like 
to  see  even  him. 

There  was  Dublin.  A  fine  fellow  was 
Dublin.  He  was  an  Irishman — a  Dublin 
man.  Nobody  knew  his  real  name, 
and  nobody  asked  it.  His  town  became 
his  sponsor.  Indeed,  many  of  us 
dredgers  had  almost  forgotten  our  real 
names.  My  name  was  Reddy — because 
I  had  red  hair.  And  there  was  Galway 
Paddy,  and  Tom  Conroy,  the  Connaught 
man,  and  Belfast,  whose  town,  too,  had 
become  his  sponsor,  and  lots  of  others. 

One  Saturday  night,  Galway  Paddy 
wanted  to  fight  me.  We  were  all  of  us 
having  a  hilarious  time,  for  the  captain 
and  mate  had  gone  ashore  till  Monday. 
So  the  whisky  was  flowing,  and  we  were 
singing  songs,  and  telling  one  another 


60  A  Man  Adrift 

where  we  had  been  and  where  we  hadn't 
been.  All  at  once  someone  began  to 
talk  about  fighting,  and  one  word 
brought  on  another,  till  at  last  Dublin 
challenged  Tom  Conroy,  the  Connaught 
man.  They  agreed  to  fight  on  the 
after  deck.  It  was  a  dark  night,  and 
one  of  us  stood  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin 
holding  a  lantern  so  that  the  men  could 
see  to  punch  each  other.  Dublin  was 
a  good  man  to  fight,  but  on  this  occasion 
he  was  too  drunk,  and  the  Connaught 
man  knocked  him  out  in  short  order. 
I  stood  on  the  wharf — the  boat  was 
made  fast  to  a  big  pile — and  cheered 
on  Dublin,  who  was  my  particular  friend. 
When  he  got  knocked  out,  Gal  way 
Paddy,  who  was  backing  up  the  Con- 
naught  man,  challenged  me  to  fight. 
I  liked  Paddy,  and  having  no  reasons 
to  quarrel  with  him,  I  declined  with 
thanks.  I  used  to  make  it  a  rule  never 
to  fight  without  a  reason.  But  he 
persisted,  and  finally  he  made  a  rush  for 
me  from  the  deck.  I  was  just  getting 
ready  —  much  against  my  will  —  to  let 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     61 

him  have  a  hard  left-and-right,  when, 
to  my  intense  surprise,  the  indomitable 
Patrick  suddenly  disappeared.  It  was 
dark,  and  I  couldn't  make  out  where  he 
had  got  to  till  I  heard  a  voice  down  be- 
neath me  spluttering  out :  "  Reddy ! 
Pull  me  up!  I'm  dhrownin'!"  It  was 
poor  Paddy.  As  he  was  making  the  drive 
for  me  he  stepped  on  nothing,  between 
the  boat  and  the  wharf,  and  the  first 
thing  he  knew  was  the  finding  of  him- 
self in  the  icy  cold  water.  I  yanked 
Paddy  up.  It  was  a  good  job  I  was  sober 
enough,  for  there  was  nothing  for  him 
to  grab  at,  and  no  room  for  him  to  swim. 
He  would  have  been  drowned,  sure 
enough.  This  stopped  the  fighting. 

But  Dublin,  I  often  think  of  him.  He 
was  a  fing  type  of  man,  though  he  was 
but  a  rough  hulk  of  a  dredger — a  mag- 
netic, able  man,  who  never  had  had  the 
ghost  of  a  chance  in  this  big  world.  And 
right  here  I  would  like  to  say  a  word 
concerning  labouring  men.  It  is  said 
that  they  do  not  think.  This  is  not 
true.  I,  who  have  been  a  labouring 


6  2  A  Man  Adrift 

man,  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that,  in 
the  main,  men  who  are  rough  and 
illiterate  have  more  vigour  of  thought 
and  imagination  than  the  men  who 
have  received  educational  advantages, 
and  who  are  alleged  to  be  intellectual. 
I  mean  that  they  have  more  genuine 
mind-power.  The  labourer  is  faced  with 
grim,  iron  facts,  and  his  judgment — 
whatever  its  scope — is  evolved  from  a 
first-hand  experience  of  actual  life. 

Poor  Dublin!  He  was  drowned.  He 
was  lost  at  night  in  one  of  the  sudden 
squalls  that  come  up  in  the  winter  time 
in  the  Chesapeake  Bay.  He  was  scull- 
ing a  little  yawl  to  the  schooner  he  be- 
longed to.  The  squall  struck  the  yawl 
and  capsized  her,  and  Dublin  died 
fighting  in  the  cold  waters.  God  rest 
him !  He  was  a  brave,  fine  man,  though 
he  did  get  drunk,  and  though  he  did 
fight,  and  though  he  had  been  in'  prison 
often  and  often.  He  would  give  the 
last  cent  he  had  to  a  stranger  if  the 
stranger  needed  it.  He  was  sympa- 
thetic and  noble,  and,  above  all,  brave. 


Life  on  an  Oyster-Boat     63 

He  was  my  pal — my  friend.  There  was 
something  fine  in  the  expression  of  his 
face.  He  had  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair, 
and  he  was  a  middle-sized  man  of  a  power- 
ful build.  I  never  knew  his  real  name. 
Everyone  liked  him.  Dredger  though 
he  was,  tramp  though  he  was,  though 
he  had  known  the  inside  of  prisons,  I 
am  proud  of  having  known  him,  of 
having  taken  his  hand,  of  having  been 
his  friend. 


V.— FIGHTING  A  NOR'-WESTER 

WE  hauled  in  our  dredges,  and  headed 
for  Black  Walnut  Harbour,  which  lay 
off  about  seven  miles  to  the  north-west. 
We  had  been  dredging  for  oysters  all 
the  morning.  Our  little  schooner  was  not 
more  than  twenty  tons  burthen,  and  there 
were  seven  men  of  us  aboard,  all  told. 

The  weather  had  begun  to  look  ugly, 
and  the  captain  thought  we  might  as 
well  be  getting  in  to  harbour.  All  the 
morning  there  had  been  a  nasty  swell 
rolling,  and  now  and  then  smartish 
spells  of  wind.  We  thought  that,  likely 
enough,  we  would  be  able  to  weather 
it  out  till  sunset.  But  white  caps  began 
to  show  on  the  waves,  and  far  off  on  the 
north-west  the  sky  was  gradually  darkening. 

We  were  in  for  a  nor'-wester,  sure 
enough,  and  a  nor'-wester  always  means 
business.  It  was  near  the  end  of  the 
64 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester    65 

month  of  December  in  the  shallow,  dan- 
gerous waters  of  the  Chesapeake  Bay. 

Suddenly,  as  I  was  coiling  the  dredge 
rope  round  the  neck  of  the  starboard 
dredge,  the  nor'-wester  smashed  down 
on  us.  The  jib  bellied  out,  and  strained 
as  if  she  would  break  away.  I  rushed 
forward  to  ease  the  sheet.  We  were  in 
it.  Right  in  a  whirl  of  flying,  cutting 
spray,  wind-gusts,  and  claps  of  thunder. 
It  was  dark  now,  and  the  tops  of  the 
waves  looked  like  the  edges  of  big,  tear- 
ing flames  as  the  streaks  of  lightning 
flashed  on  them.  We  were  shipping 
murderous-looking  seas. 

The  harbour  we  were  making  for  lay 
off  right  dead  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 
and,  in  fact,  was  no  harbour  at  all  for  a 
nor'-wester,  but  there  was  no  other  place 
for  us  to  make  for.  It  was  Hobson's 
choice.  Go  in  or  stay  out.  Besides, 
there  was  a  small  bend  in  it  to  the  west 
right  over  at  the  end.  If  we  could  make 
this  we  would  be  sheltered  a  good  deal. 

Beating  up  in  the  eye  of  the  wind 
meant  making  very  short  tacks  with 


66  A  Man  Adrift 

everything  close  reefed  and  the  sheets 
hauled  down  flat.  We  took  the  foresail 
in  altogether.  Then  we  worked  slowly 
up  with  the  jib  and  short  mainsail.  It 
was  hard,  cold  work.  The  frost  numbed 
my  fingers  even  through  the  thick  mittens 
I  wore. 

By  this  time  it  had  lightened  up  again, 
but  the  gale  broke  along  harder  than 
ever.  The  captain  was  at  the  wheel,  with 
the  lappets  of  his  sou'-wester  tied  down 
over  his  ears.  His  brother  stood  by  him. 
Victor  was  forward  tending  the  jib  sheet. 
Jack  and  I  were  amidships  hanging  on 
to  the  mainsail  halyards.  The  schooner 
was  labouring  terribly,  and  it  looked 
as  if  she  might  swamp.  If  a  big  sea 
were  to  bear  down  upon  her  before  she 
had  recovered  from  the  sea  before, 
the  business  would  be  done,  and  we 
would  be  fighting  for  our  lives  in  the 
cold  waters.  We  would  struggle  a  little 
and  die  like  freezing,  drowning  rats. 
She  was  of  the  wrong  shape  and  of  too 
small  a  tonnage  to  be  a  good,  heavy- 
weather  boat.  In  a  gale  of  wind  there 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester    67 

is  nothing  like  having  plenty  of  tonnage 
under  you. 

After  a  long  and  hard  time  we  beat 
our  way  up  to  the  edge  of  the  harbour. 
How  we  managed  it  I  don't  know.  It 
was  one  continuous,  desperate  fight  with 
big,  chopping  seas  and  a  wind  that  cut 
you  and  wrenched  you  and  stung  you 
to  the  bone  at  the  same  time.  All  of  us 
were  drenched  through  and  deadly  cold. 
Only  for  Frank,  the  cook,  managing  to 
make  us  some  coffee  we  would  never 
have  been  able  to  do  anything.  Hot 
coffee,  mixed  with  whisky,  is  a  good 
drink  or  a  tight  place. 

Sloops  and  schooners  were  straining 
and  tugging  at  their  anchors  inside  the 
harbour.  They  had  been  caught  sud- 
denly, as  we  were  caught,  and  had  no 
time  to  make  for  a  better  harbour  from 
the  nor'-wester. 

Now  we  were  in  and  close  up  to  the 
bend.  If  we  could  make  our  way  up 
it  would  be  all  right.  But  we  couldn't. 
The  wind  was  so  strong  that  we  were 
not  able  to  make  the  very  short  tack 


68  A  Man  Adrift 

necessary  to  get  in.  So  we  had  to  let 
our  anchors  go  right  where  we  were. 
The  minute  they  chocked  the  schooner 
up  we  began  to  pay  out  all  the  chain 
we  could  afford.  In  heavy  weather  the 
more  chain  there  is  out  to  the  anchor 
the  better  chance  has  it  of  holding. 

For  a  while  we  seemed  to  be  all  right. 
But  all  at  once  our  anchors  began,  to  drag. 
They  were  too  light.  This  had  been  the 
chief  reason  for  our  trying  to  make  the 
bend.  The  other  boats  in  the  harbour 
were  holding  their  own,  but  they  evi- 
dently had  much  heavier  anchors  com- 
pared with  their  size  than  we  had. 

Drag !  Crunch  !  Drag !  There  was  no- 
thing for  us  to  do  but  to  let  the  anchors 
go  altogether.  We  fixed  buoys  on  to  the 
chains  before  we  cast  them  off,  so  that 
we  could  find  them  afterwards,  and  then 
we  turned  and  made  for  the  mouth  of 
the  harbour  again.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  run  out  into  the  nor'-wester 
and  take  our  chances  till  the  gale  wore 
itself  down.  It  was  like  running  into 
death. 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester     69 

Right  near  the  edge  of  the  harbour  we 
collided  with  a  big  schooner  swinging  at 
anchor.  Both  of  us  suffered.  She  had 
part  of  her  bowsprit  wrenched  off,  and 
our  fore-shrouds  were  torn  away  on  the 
port  side.  For  a  few  seconds  the  boats 
closed  and  seemed  to  grapple  together. 

At  this  point  the  German  who  belonged 
to  our  crew  got  on  to  the  big  schooner  to 
help  to  push  our  boat  off.  In  a  minute 
we  were  free  of  her  and  rushing  on  before 
the  gale,  but  when  we  looked  round  for 
the  German  he  was  gone.  He  had 
stopped  aboard  the  big  schooner. 

We  could  hardly  blame  him,  however, 
for  our  game  had  too  many  chances  of 
losing  in  it.  What  we  were  going  to  do 
was  not  very  clear.  The  object  of  going 
out  again  after  we  had  lost  our  anchors 
was  to  save  the  boat.  We  were  staking 
our  lives  for  it. 

And  it  looked  as  if  we  were  going  to 
lose  them.  No  one  could  tell  what 
would  come  from  one  minute  to  another. 
We  might  be  swamped — or  something 
might  give  way. 


yo  A  Man  Adrift 

And  now  an  accident  happened. 

The  wooden  jib-traveller  broke  away 
all  at  once,  and  Victor,  who  was  stand- 
ing on  it,  was  flung  overboard.  He  had 
been  jamming  the  jib  sheet  to  leeward 
with  his  foot.  The  big  iron  ring  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sheet,  which  ran  along  the 
traveller,  had  caught  in  the  middle  of 
it,  and  the  traveller  had  suddenly 
smashed  upwards  through  the  force  of 
the  wind  on  the  jib. 

I  saw  Victor  flying  up  in  the  air  as 
clean  as  if  he  had  been  shot  out  of  a 
gun.  I  rushed  forward  and  flung  over 
the  end  of  a  rope,  but  I  could  see  no- 
thing of  him.  The  sea  had  swallowed 
him  right  up.  It  is  awful  to  see  a  man 
go  to  death  in  such  a  way.  We  all 
shouted.  The  captain  flung  out  the  only 
life-buoy  we  had.  Lowering  the  little 
yawl  that  hung  astern  would  have  been 
worse  than  useless.  It  would  have  lived 
no  more  than  a  few  seconds  in  the  sea 
that  was  running.  We  could  do  nothing. 

The  jib  was  flapping  viciously.  The 
first  thing  to  do  was  to  let  it  down  with 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester     71 

a  run,  which  I  did.  Then  I  thought  I 
heard  a  voice  coming  from  somewhere 
forward.  I  turned  my  head,  and  I  heard 
it  again.  And  then  I  worked  my  way 
slowly  up  to  the  bowsprit.  The  schooner 
was  tossing  about  now  more  than  ever,  be- 
cause of  there  being  no  jib  to  steady  her. 

I  looked  overboard,  and  I  saw  Victor. 
He  was  down  in  the  water  right  under 
the  bow  of  the  boat,  clinging  to  the  bob- 
stay.  I  just  reached  down,  caught  him 
by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  yanked 
him  aboard.  A  stream  of  blood  was 
running  down  his  face.  A  splinter  from 
the  traveller  had  struck  him.  We  were 
glad  to  have  him  safe  aboard  again,  but 
we  didn't  have  time  to  tell  him  so. 
There  was  too  much  to  be  done.  The 
reason  for  his  escape  from  death  was 
simple.  He  had  been  flung  overboard 
in  the  direction  that  the  boat  was  going, 
and  she  had  drifted  right  on  to  him. 
He  was  all  right  again,  however,  as  soon 
as  he  got  his  head  tied  up,  and  had  had 
a  drink  of  hot  coffee.  Then  he  fought 
along  with  the  rest  of  us. 


j2  A  Man  Adrift 

We  tried  to  rig  up  a  sort  of  traveller 
for  the  jib  with  blocks  and  lashings,  but 
it  was  no  use.  It  was  blowing  too  hard. 
And  all  the  while  the  schooner  was 
floundering  and  shipping  seas.  Then, 
as  nothing  could  be  done  with  the  jib, 
Jack  and  I  crawled  out  on  each  side  of 
the  bowsprit  and  tied  it  down.  How  we 
stuck  on  the  foot-ropes  I  don't  know. 
It  was  the  ugliest  job  men  ever  tackled. 
You  had  to  stick  for  all  you  were  worth, 
or  you  were  gone.  The  bowsprit  would 
bury  itself  right  down  in  the  water — rise 
— and  bury  itself  again.  As  I  was  cau- 
tiously and  slowly  tying  a  knot  I  would 
suddenly  find  my  head  a  foot  under 
water.  I  would  gulp,  and  stick  like  iron, 
and  slowly  I  would  find  myself  lifted 
up  again.  It  was  one  hand  for  yourself 
and  the  other  for  the  boat.  But  at  last 
we  had  it  finished,  and  we  got  inboard. 

The  next  thing  to  do  was  to  raise  the 
foresail,  reef  it  as  close  down  as  we 
could,  and  raise  the  peak  of  it  a  little. 
Our  idea  was  to  try  and  make  it  take  the 
place  of  the  jib  by  giving  more  sheet  to 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester     73 

it  than  we  gave  to  the  mainsail.  In  the 
end  we  were  successful ;  but  we  had  a 
fearful  job  reefing  it,  for  our  hands  were 
numbed  with  cold.  Frank,  the  cook,  was 
standing  next  to  me  helping  to  reef,  and 
I  saw  him  tie  a  grannie  knot.  A  grannie 
knot  slips  when  a  strain  comes  upon  it, 
and  knots  that  slip  on  a  boat  may  mean 
death. 

I  swore  hard  at  Frank  as  I  undid  and 
retied  the  knot  myself.  He  shuddered, 
and  said,  "  Don't  swear  at  a  time  like 
this.  We  may  never  touch  land  again." 
Frank  evidently  thought  it  was  more 
dangerous  to  swear  than  to  tie  an  unsafe 
knot. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  after  this  but 
to  run  before  the  gale  and  hope  for  the 
best.  I  pulled  off  my  big  sea  boots  so 
as  to  have  whatever  chance  there  was  of 
swimming  when  the  time  came.  I  might 
as  well  have  kept  them  on  though,  for 
all  the  chance  I  would  have  had,  for  the 
shore  was  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  away. 
Besides,  even  if  a  man  could  keep  his 
head  in  the  big  seas  he  would  be  frozen 


74  A  Man  Adrift 

up  in  no  time.  But  in  a  tight  time  one 
instinctively  does  all  one  can.  The  long, 
soaked  boots  made  my  feet  cold  anyway. 
The  captain's  brother  began  to  cry,  but 
one  couldn't  blame  him,  for  he  was  little 
more  than  a  boy. 

But  I  must  say  the  captain  was 
game.  He  stuck  to  the  wheel  for 
hour  after  hour,  his  face  set  and  calm. 
He  was  a  man  from  the  eastern  part 
of  Maryland. 

The  night  was  upon  us  now,  and  the 
moon  came  out  clear  and  bright.  But 
the  gale  broke  on  as  hard  as  ever.  Still, 
being  able  to  see  the  lie  of  the  bay  shore 
was  a  good  thing. 

It  was  this  that  saved  us  in  the  en.d, 
for  the  captain  saw,  away  off,  an  inlet 
that  he  knew.  We  had  run  farther 
from  Black  Walnut  Harbour  than  we 
thought.  The  beach  of  this  inlet  was 
sloping  and  of  sand.  The  thing  was 
to  get  into  it  and  run  the  schooner 
ashore. 

We  got  into  the  inlet  all  right,  and 
before  we  knew  where  we  were  we  were 


Fighting  a  Nor'-wester     75 

safe  and  sound  on  the  sand.  The  slope 
was  so  gradual  that  we  could  hardly  feel 
ourselves  beaching.  And  the  gale  roared 
and  roared.  But  we  were  snug  and  out 
of  danger. 

We  stayed  there  two  days.  And  when 
the  nor'-wester  had  worn  itself  out,  and 
everything  was  calm  and  quiet  again,  we 
pulled  ourselves  off  the  beach  at  high  tide. 
We  had  weathered  the  nor'-wester.  Then 
we  went  back  to  Black  Walnut  Harbour 
and  picked  up  our  anchors. 
******* 

At  last  I  grew  tired  of  dredging.  I 
was  as  hard  up  as  when  I  began.  Labour 
had  brought  me  nothing  but  hardship  and 
degradation.  I  had  worked  the  blood 
and  muscle  out  of  my  body  to  create 
wealth  for  others.  I  had  lived  in  the 
midst  of  absolute  filth — in  a  place  not  fit 
to  kennel  a  dog  in.  If  I  hadn't  been 
a  dangerous,  fighting  brute  of  a  man  I 
would  have  been  struck  and  ill-used  into 
the  bargain.  Aye,  I- had  worked  my  life 
out  to  create  wealth  for  others,  and  for 
my  reward  I  had  neither  a  place  to  sleep 


7  6  A  Man  Adrift 

in  nor  a  bite  to  eat.  What  was  the  use  of 
working  at  all,  I  thought?  I  got  neither 
reward  nor  respect. 

So    I    faced     about     and     became     a 
tramp. 


VI.— ON    TRAMP 

To  be  penniless  and  on  tramp  Is  a 
curious  experience.  You  care  for  no 
one,  and  no  one  cares  for  you.  Things 
about  you  seem  vague  and  elusive.  You 
are  in  a  mental  chaos.  You  are  a  link 
dissevered  from  the  human  chain.  And 
you  wander  hardly  knowing  or  caring 
where  you  wander. 

As  you  shuffle  along  people  glance  at 
you  as  they  pass.  Scorn  is  in  their  eyes, 
for  you  are  a  man  without  a  home — a  man 
without  friends.  You  are  dispirited,  dirty, 
and  without  self-respect.  The  aphorism 
that  the  world  owes  every  man  a  living 
does  not  apply  to  you. 

You  haven't  spirit  enough  to  steal ;  you 
haven't  continuity  of  mind  enough  to  plan 
a  course  of  action.  Your  thoughts  waver. 
You  will  forget  where  and  how  you  began 
to  think.  Projects  will  come  up  before 
77 


78  A  Man  Adrift 

you,  and  they  will  fade  before  you  grasp 
them.  If  you  had  force  enough  in  you 
you  would  hate  everything  and  everybody. 
You  would  feel  hard,  sharp  resentment. 
You  would  like  to  do  murder,  to  rob,  to 
destroy.  You  would  like  to  hold  the 
world  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand  so  that 
you  might  crush  it. 

But  you  are  impotent — your  pulse  is 
down — you  shuffle  along. 

Who  you  are  or  what  you  were  matters 
not.  You  may  be  a  man  with  a  past,  you 
may  be  a  man  with  a  future.  You  may 
be  one  who  has  belonged  to  the  topmost 
class ;  you  may  be  a  labourer,  or  a  man 
from  out  the  filth  of  the  slums,  or  a 
dispirited  low-down  thief. 

And  you  beg  for  bread.  You  knock  at 
the  doors  of  houses  and  ask  for  something 
to  eat,  or  you  ask  alms  of  stray,  passing 
men.  It  may  have  been  that  at  one  time 
in  your  life  you  would  have  thought  it 
impossible  for  you  to  beg.  You  would 
have  shuddered  at  the  bare  idea.  How 
shameful !  You  would  have  thought  that 
death  would  be  preferable.  If  a  man  had 


On  Tramp  79 

said  that  you  would  come  to  this  you 
would  have  struck  him  in  the  face.  Per- 
haps when  you  did  think  of  able-bodied 
men  begging  you  thought  of  them  as 
wretches  hardly  worth  the  powder  and 
ball  it  would  take  to  kill  them. 

You  feel  sad. 

Still  there  are  times  when  a  fine  moment 
comes  to  you.  It  may  be  that  you  will 
feel  the  curious  sense  of  power  that  be- 
longs to  utter  loneliness.  It  may  be  that 
you  will  feel  the  sense  of  freedom  that 
comes  from  a  total  lack  of  responsibility. 
No  one  is  dependent  upon  you.  No  one 
is  waiting  for  you.  If  people  have  a  con- 
tempt for  you,  at  least  they  let  you  alone. 
And  this  is  something. 

You  are  thrown  in  upon  yourself.  For 
the  first  time  in  your  life,  perhaps,  you 
really  begin  to  know  who  and  what  you 
are.  You  are  interested  in  the  strange 
unfoldings  of  yourself.  You  have  dreams 
and  fancies  and  curious  longings.  A  world 
opens  to  you  within  yourself.  And  you 
walk  on  and  on,  bearing  with  you  a 
wonderful  dream  world. 


80  A  Man  Adrift 

What  matters  to  you  the  contempt  of 
people  who  move  in  grooves,  who  them- 
selves fear  the  opinions  of  others  ?  After 
all,  they  will  die,  even  as  you  will  die. 

Yes,  they  will  die  in  a  day.  They  will 
come  to  dust.  For  you  the  sun  shines  as 
it  shines  for  them.  For  you  the  water 
flows  as  it  flows  for  them.  In  common 
with  them  you  have  the  air  to  breathe. 
In  common  with  them  you  can  see  the 
strange  pictures  in  the  clouds.  In  common 
with  them  you  can  move  and  think  and 
see  and  hear. 

In  moments  when  these  thoughts  are 
with  you,  you  move  along  with  a  brisk 
step — you  ask  for  bread  without  shame. 


VII.— BILLY 

BILLY  and  I  were  partners.  We  tramped 
along  looking  for  work  together ;  we  slept 
in  the  same  haystack  together ;  we  whacked 
up  what  little  money  we  got  for  doing  odd 
jobs.  When  things  were  absolutely  tight, 
we  shared  the  food  that  we  begged  from 
the  farmhouses  we  passed  on  the  road. 
Who  Billy  really  was  I  never  had  the 
least  idea.  Where  he  is  now  I  have  no 
idea.  He  came  suddenly  into  my  life, 
and  went  out  of  it  in  a  like  way.  He 
told  me  his  name  was  Billy,  and  that  was 
the  end  and  beginning  of  anything  tangible 
he  had  to  say  about  himself.  True,  he 
spoke  now  and  then  of  his  life  in  the  past, 
but  only  in  a  vague,  distant  sort  of  way 
— as  if  he  were  speaking  more  to  himself 
than  to  me. 

We  were  just  two  outcasts  who  met  by 
F  81 


8  a  A  Man  Adrift 

chance,  and  who  stayed  by  each  other 
while  circumstances  permitted. 

I  saw  him  first  as  I  was  going  along 
the  road  to  Baltimore.  He  was  sitting 
under  a  hedge  on  the  roadside  when  I 
noticed  him — a  tired,  sad-looking,  bearded 
man  of  about  forty-five.  His  clothes  were 
old  and  worn,  and  covered  with  dust.  On 
the  face  of  it,  he  was  a  tramp  like  myself. 
His  eyes  were  large  and  blue,  and  in  them 
was  a  curious  look  of  mingled  pathos  and 
resentment — the  look  that  marks  the  man 
whose  life  has  been  a  failure  from  the 
world's  standpoint. 

"  Hello,  partner ! "  I  said,  as  I  stopped 
and  looked  at  him.  "Where  are  you 
bound  for?" 

"  Baltimore,"  he  answered.  There  was 
a  pleasant  ring  in  his  voice. 

"  I'm  going  that  way,  too,"  I  said. 

We  talked  for  a  little  while,  and  then 
we  started  on  our  ,way  together. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  Sep- 
tember. The  leaves  of  the  trees  were 
already  beginning  to  turn  to  the  rich 
varied  colours  of  the  fall,  or  American 


Billy  83 

autumn.  Though  I  had  no  idea  where  I 
would  sleep  that  night,  I  felt  to  the  full 
the  joy  of  life.  There  was  something  so 
vital  and  clear  and  sustaining  in  the  air. 
Off  from  the  road  were  glades  and  forests 
toned  with  curious  and  exquisite  colours. 
The  clear  cries  of  birds  filled  the  air.  I 
felt  glad  as  I  stepped  out  freely  along  the 
road.  It  was  worth  while  being  a  name- 
less and  homeless  tramp  for  the  sake  of 
living  and  moving  through  a  scene  like 
this. 

As  we  walked  along  Billy  and  I  talked 
together.  He  interested  me  very  much — 
not  so  much  because  of  what  he  had  to 
say,  but  because  of  himself.  The  man 
had  individuality. 

After  a  little  while  I  found  out  what 
he  was.  This  was  as  far  as  I  ever  got, 
for  I  never  found  out  who  he  was.  Likely 
enough  he  wished  to  forget  it  himself, 
and  I  had  no  curiosity  on  that  score.  I 
knew  as  much  about  him  in  the  first  half 
hour  as  I  ever  knew. 

He  was  an  English  gentleman  who  had 
drifted  away  from  his  bearings,  and  come 


84  A  Man  Adrift 

down  in  the  world — just  a  piece  of  human 
wreckage.  He  did  not,  of  course,  say 
that  he  was  a  gentleman,  but  I  saw  it 
almost  at  a  glance.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking it.  About  him  was  that  fine, 
curious,  half-insolent  air  —  that  air  that 
is  called  "manner."  Hardship  and  the 
humiliation  of  having  to  beg  for  his  bread 
had  not  robbed  him  of  this. 

We  tramped  on  and  on  for  hours — 
past  cornfields  and  peach  orchards  and 
forests.  Now  and  then  we  saw  in  the 
distances  stretches  of  the  shining,  silver 
waters  of  a  bay.  It  was  the  Chesapeake 
Bay.  The  memory  of  that  strange  after- 
noon will  always  be  with  me.  We  talked 
of  many  things,  the  drift  of  which  has 
since  passed  from  me. 

At  last,  when  the  sun  began  to  sink, 
we  came  to  a  halt,  and  began  to  discuss 
as  to  where  we  should  pass  the  night. 
Off  over  near  a  big  farmhouse  we  sighted 
a  haystack,  and  we  determined  to  wait 
till  it  grew  darker,  and  then  to  go  and 
climb  up  into  it.  We  lay  down  near  the 
hedge,  and  when  it  was  dark  we  crossed 


Billy  85 

the  field  cautiously  to  the  haystack.  We 
were  afraid  of  dogs  hearing  us  and  set- 
ting up  a  -  barking.  We  got  there  all 
right,  and  we  climbed  up  into  the  fresh, 
clean  hay.  We  had  found  a  most  de- 
lightful bed — a  fragrant,  refreshing  bed, 
after  the  tramp  of  the  day. 

The  cool,  clear  stars  were  shining  above 
us. 

When  morning  came  we  got  down  out 
of  the  haystack  without  being  seen,  and 
made  a  detour  so  as  to  approach  the  farm- 
house from  the  front.  Our  idea  was  to 
ask  the  people  there  for  breakfast.  After 
we  had  done  a  little  work  they  gave  us 
breakfast.  Then  we  started  out  again  on 
the  main  road.  We  could  have  got  work 
on  the  farm,  but  that  hardly  suited  us, 
as  our  object  was  to  get  to  Baltimore. 
Besides,  the  charm  of  tramping  the  road 
was  upon  us.  Moving  along  through  the 
changing  open  country  was  a  much  more 
alluring  prospect  than  sticking  at  hard 
steady  work. 

At  the  time  I  met  Billy  I  was  all  but 
an  illiterate  man — being  hardly  able  to 


86  A  Man  Adrift 

read  and  write.  But  still  I  had  had  a 
wide  experience  of  actual  living,  and  knew 
something  about  men.  Thus  I  was  able 
to  appreciate  Billy  at  his  full  worth, 
though  I  am  afraid  my  appreciation  was 
of  but  little  help  to  him.  Of  the  two  I 
alone  was  the  gainer.  I  could  give  him 
nothing,  whilst  he  gave  me  a  great  deal. 
It  is  a  curious  thing  to  meet  with  and  be 
indebted  to  a  man  whose  name  even  you 
don't  know.  But  such  was  the  case. 

It  was  Billy  who  first  gave  me  the  idea 
of  trying  to  educate  myself.  He  did  not 
do  so  knowingly,  however.  It  was  rather 
that  I  was  struck  with  the  great  differ- 
ence that  lay  between  us.  He  had  style  ; 
he  knew  things ;  he  could  express  him- 
self easily  and  surely.  Though  he  was 
but  a  tramp  like  myself,  still  he  had  an 
advantage  over  me.  True,  this  advan- 
tage had  not  been  able  to  stop  him  from 
coming  down  in  the  world.  But  I  felt  it 
to  be  an  advantage,  nevertheless,  and  I 
longed  to  possess  it,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
that  if  I  had  it  I  would  have  a  chance  to 
raise  myself. 


Billy 


87 


It  was  a  curious  look  that  Billy  gave 
me  when  I  spoke  of  this  to  him.  But  he 
volunteered  to  help  me. 

I  chanced  to  have  in  my  pocket  a  little 
ten-cent  dictionary.  How  or  where  I  got 
it,  I  forget  now.  It  was  dog-eared  and 
grimy,  but  it  answered  the  purpose. 

My  first  task  was  to  learn  to  pronounce 
the  big  words  in  it  properly.  Billy  would 
tell  me  the  right  pronunciation,  and  I 
would  repeat  and  repeat  it  after  him  till 
at  last  I  got  it. 

And  so  it  went  as  we  slowly  tramped  on 
our  way  to  Baltimore.  Billy  took  the 
greatest  pains  to  teach  me  as  much  as 
possible.  When  I  made  a  slip  in  speak- 
ing he  would  tell  me  of  it  and  explain  to 
me  why  it  was  a  slip. 

He  went  into  the  history  of  the  world 
and  of  the  nations  of  the  world.  He 
told  me  of  the  mysterious  origins  and 
vagaries  of  religion.  He  told  me  how 
the  geologists  had  wrested  from  the  earth 
and  rocks  their  dim  secrets. 

These  days  were  for  me  wonderful 
days. 


A  Man  Adrift 

We  worked  now  and  then  at  cutting 
corn  or  picking  peaches.  We  wanted  to 
have  a  little  money  by  us  when  we  got 
to  Baltimore.  The  farmer  would  let  us 
sleep  at  night  in  the  barn.  Sleeping  on 
a  warm  night  in  a  great,  roomy  barn  is 
delightful.  In  the  air  is  the  cool  fresh 
smell  of  the  earth  and  its  produce.  How 
fine  and  refreshing  is  the  smell  of  the 
earth !  Why  do  people  live  in  towns  ? 

At  daybreak  the  farmer  would  come 
and  call  us ;  and  we  would  get  up,  lave 
our  faces  and  hands  in  water,  and  go 
out  into  the  field  or  orchard.  After 
working  an  hour  or  so,  we  would  come 
back  hungry  to  breakfast ;  and  then  we 
would  work  on  to  dinner-time,  and 
then  on  up  to  sunset.  After  sunset 
we  would  have  supper  and  go  back  to 
the  barn. 

I  liked  the  odd  days  we  worked  in 
the  peach  orchards  best.  The  orchards 
were  filled  with  an  exquisite  aroma. 
And  the  trees,  with  their  green  leaves 
and  delicately-coloured,  full  fruit,  looked 
so  beautiful  with  the  sun  shining 


Billy  89 


through  them.  The  farmer  would  allow 
us  to  take  as  much  of  the  fruit  as  we 
wanted  for  ourselves. 

At  other  times  we  would  stop  on 
our  way  to  bathe  in  a  stream.  Then 
we  would  wash  our  clothes,  spread 
them  out  in  the  sun,  and  lie  down  and 
wait  for  them  to  dry. 

At  last  we  were  in  Baltimore,  a  big 
town  of  busy  streets  and  wharves, 
where  lay  ships  of  all  descriptions.  It 
was  so  different  from  the  peaceful 
country,  with  its  calm,  glorious  health. 
Here  was  nothing  but  rush  and  hurry, 
and  unrest  and  foul  air.  Even  the 
waters  of  the  bay  looked  soiled  and 
black  from  the  wharves.  I  was  sorry 
to  be  in  the  town.  I  thought  of  the 
pure  air,  and  the  clean,  gliding  stream- 
waters.  The  forest  and  wide  fresh 
fields  came  up  before  me. 

We  had  got  into  Baltimore  the  night 
before.  We  had  been  tramping  all 
day  and  we  were  very  tired,  and  all 
the  money  we  had  between  us  was  a 
dollar  and  seventy-five  cents.  Billy 


90  A  Man  Adrift 

knew  of  a  cheap  lodging-house  near 
the  Lightstreet  Wharf,  and  we  went 
there.  The  keeper  of  it  was  a  man 
named  Murray,  who  gave  Billy  a  cordial 
welcome.  Billy  had  stayed  in  the  lodg- 
ing-house on  and  off  for  a  long  time. 

Here  one  could  get  a  bed  for  ten  cents, 
and  a  meal  for  fifteen  cents.  In  the 
house  were  two  great  rooms,  or  dormi- 
tories, which  held  fifty  beds  each. 
They  were  small,  narrow  beds — stand- 
ing in  two  long  rows — with  a  space  of 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  between  them. 
Every  man  slept  with  his  clothes  under 
his  pillow.  If  this  precaution  were  not 
taken  one  was  apt  to  wake  up  and  find 
either  his  money — if  he  had  any — or 
part  of  his  clothes  gone. 

Billy  and  I  were  lucky  enough  to  pick 
up  some  work  on  the  wharf,  for  which 
we  were  paid  at  the  rate  of  twenty 
cents  an  hour.  The  work  was  rather 
hard — unloading  freight  from  a  ship — 
but  it  was  more  interesting  than  labour- 
ing work  usually  is. 

During    all    this    time    Billy  kept    on 


Billy  91 

teaching  me  whenever  he  got  a  chance. 
I  got  some  books,  amongst  which  was 
a  translation  of  Goethe's  masterpiece, 
Faust.  At  once  I  learned  off  by 
heart  the  wonderful  verses  in  the  be- 
ginning of  the  poem,  where  the  arch- 
angels address  themselves  to  God.  The 
sublimeness  of  the  thoughts  and  words 
carried  into  my  mind  a  great  light.  I 
felt  myself  awakening  and  growing.  I 
began  to  see  something  beautiful  even 
in  the  squalor  around  me. 

Soon  I  had  committed  to  memory 
nearly  the  whole  of  the  great  poem.  I 
would  repeat  parts  of  it  aloud  to  Billy, 
and  he  would  explain  to  me  the  mean- 
ing of  certain  passages. 
******* 

One  night  in  the  lodging-house  I 
took  Billy's  part  in  a  quarrel.  A  big, 
muscular  fellow  from  New  York  was 
going  to  strike  him.  I  interfered. 
This  man  had  been  talking  disparag- 
ingly of  England,  and  Billy  had  re- 
sented it,  for,  like  all  Englishman,  he 
was  proud  of  his  country.  I  was  not 


92  A  Man  Adrift 

much  interested  in  the  matter  of  hear- 
ing England  abused — being  of  Irish 
blood  myself — but  I  wasn't  going  to 
see  Billy  knocked  about.  His  quarrel 
was  my  quarrel — in  fact,  more  than  my 
quarrel.  I  would  have  laid  down  my 
life  for  Billy,  the  Englishman.  Be- 
sides, I  saw  that  he  would  have  no 
earthly  chance  in  a  fight  with  the  big 
muscular  American.  Billy  was  not  strong, 
and  he  was  rather  slow  in  his  movements, 
not  suitable  at  all  for  quick,  rough 
fighting. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said  to  the  American, 
"  you  mustn't  hit  Billy.  He's  my  partner." 

"  Won't  I,  by  God ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  No,  you  won't,"  I  said  again,  quietly. 
"You  can't  pick  on  him.  I'm  more 
your  size.  I'll  fight  you." 

Billy  did  not  like  me  to  interfere. 
"  I'll  fight  my  own  battles,"  he  said.  But 
I  took  no  notice.  "Come  on,"  I  said  to 
the  American.  "  Strip  off,  and  let's  see 
what  you  can  do." 

I  pulled  off  my  coat  and  shirt,  and 
stood  naked  to  the  waist.  Then  I 


Billy  93 


tightened  my  belt.  All  the  time  I  kept 
my  eye  peeled.  I  was  on  the  lookout 
for  a  quick  rush. 

The  American  also  got  ready.  The 
other  men  stood  off  around  us,  making 
a  ring. 

We  were  just  about  to  get  to  work 
when  Murray,  the  boss,  came  up  into 
the  big  room.  This  stopped  the  thing 
at  once.  Murray  was  afraid  of  the 
police.  And  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
rather  glad  of  the  interruption,  as  I 
had  strong  doubts  as  to  whether  or 
not  I  could  polish  off  the  big  American. 
******* 

Dear  old  Billy!  "English  Billy,"  as 
they  used  to  call  him.  Years  after- 
wards I  was  again  in  Baltimore,  under 
totally  different  circumstances.  I  called 
at  the  common  lodging-house  to  try  and 
get  some  tidings  of  him.  I  was  no  longer 
a  tramp.  The  world  had  grown  easier 
for  me.  I  had  changed. 

Murray  was  still  at  the  old  lodging- 
house.  He  was  older  and  greyer.  He 
wondered  who  it  was  who  was  asking 


94  A  Man  Adrift 

him  about  this  English  Billy  who  used 
to  come  and  get  a  bed  at  his  lodging- 
house.  I  could  see  that  he  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  as  to  who  I  was. 

He  could   tell  me   nothing.     Billy  had 
gone  away  years  ago. 


VIII.— SHOVELLING 

OF  all  the  kinds  of  labouring  work  I 
have  ever  tackled,  shovelling  is  the  most 
trying  and  monotonous.  It  is  work  of 
the  sheer,  unadulterated  order.  If  dig- 
nity goes  with  it — as  it  is  alleged  to  go 
with  all  labouring  work — I  can  only 
hazard  the  opinion  that  this  dignity  is 
of  the  most  diaphanous  and  hard-to-be- 
perceived  kind.  It  certainly  escaped  my 
power  of  observation. 

Fellows  have  asserted  to  me  that  the 
navvy  was  really  fond  of  his  shovelling. 
"Give  him  his  pipe  and  his  glass  of  beer 
in  the  evening,  and  he  goes  back  to  his 
work  in  the  morning  with  joy."  This 
assertion  has  been  made  to  me  with  vary- 
ing degrees  of  emphasis,  but  truth  com- 
pels me  to  add  that  the  fellow  who  so 
asserted  was  not  a  navvy — never  had  been 
a  navvy,  and  never  was  likely  to  be  a 
95 


96  A  Man  Adrift 

navvy.  He  was  some  leisured  theoriser. 
Some  wordful  person.  And  it  has 
always  struck  me  that  the  ground  upon 
which  he  based  his  assertion  was  about 
as  solid  and  as  easy  to  be  seen  as  the 
alleged  dignity  which  forms  a  halo 
around  the  art  of  shovelling  and  other 
kindred  arts.  Indeed,  the  only  thing 
solid  the  assertion  was  based  upon  was 
the  solidness  of  ignorance. 

I  have  been  a  navvy,  and  have  neces- 
sarily mixed  with  navvies  a  great  deal, 
and  I  must  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  I 
have  never  heard  one  of  them  speak  of 
his  work  in  other  than  tones  of  disgust. 
Their  eyes  have  been  as  blind  as  my 
own  in  the  matter  of  seeing  where  the 
dignity  came  in. 

My  first  essay  at  shovelling  was  in 
Columbus,  Ohio.  I  had  got  a  job  of 
sniping  on  the  railroad  track.  Sniping 
is  nearly  analogous  to  plate-laying  in 
England.  The  difference  is  that  the 
work  is  harder,  and  the  hours  longer, 
and  the  men  are  more  bullied  by  the 
bosses.  I  fear  me  that  the  proud  British 


Shovelling  97 

workman  gets  a  surprise  of  the  most 
unpleasant  calibre  when  he  tackles  a  job 
in  America.  He  has  to  do  twice  the 
work  for  much  about  the  same  money — 
that  is,  when  everything  is  considered. 

But  to  my  maiden  experience  in  the 
art  of  shovelling. 

Myself  and  an  old  Irishman  were  given 
a  job  together  to  load  up  cinders  on  to 
flat  cars.  We  worked  side  by  side,  and 
the  amount  we  shovelled,  as  compared 
with  each  other,  could,  of  course,  be  told 
by  the  size  of  our  respective  heaps.  The 
old  Irishman  was  of  the  genuine  type  of 
labour  -  slave.  His  father  and  grand- 
father had  most  likely  been  labourers 
before  him.  It  was  in  his  blood.  He 
was  like  a  poor,  used-up  old  horse  at 
its  last  gasp,  but  still  able  to  draw. 

He  was  filled  with  a  spirit  of  emulation, 
was  the  old  Irishman,  as  he  worked 
alongside  of  me.  Here  was  I,  a  strong 
young  man,  whilst  he  was  a  man  who 
was  nearly  at  his  end !  I  could  see  that 
he  was  thinking  this  as  he  bent  himself 
to  his  work.  He  was  ould,  but  he  would 

G 


98  A  Man  Adrift 

show  the  boss  how  well  he  could  shovel ! 
So  he  went  at  it  as  hard  as  he  could. 

There  was  no  such  spirit  impelling 
me.  I  worked  with  calmness  and  ease, 
and  rested  now  and  then.  The  result 
was  that  after  some  hours  there  was  a 
tremendous  difference  between  our  re- 
spective piles.  To  use  a  comparison,  the 
old  Irishman's  pile  looked  like  one  of 
the  Himalayan  Mountains,  while  mine 
had  the  appearance  of  a  hill  of  very 
modest  height. 

The  boss  came  round,  looked  at  the 
piles,  and  exploded  with  wrath.  He,  too, 
was  an  Irishman.  "  Look  here,"  he 
shouted.  "Look  at  this  poor  ould  man 
— ould  enough  to  be  your  grandfather! 
Look  at  his  pile,  and  look  at  your  pile! 
Yez  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to 
let  an  ould  man  bate  ye!" 

But  I  did  not  feel  the  sting  of  shame, 
and  I  let  my  lack  of  feeling  be  known  to 
the  boss.  We  had  a  sharp  argument. 
During  it,  the  old  man  shovelled  harder 
than  ever.  A  pleased  look  had  come  into 
his  face.  It  was  his  moment  of  triumph. 


Shovelling  99 

The  fact  of  his  out-shovelling  a  strong 
young  man  and  the  boss  noticing  it  was 
balm  of  Gilead  to  him. 

The  next  time  I  had  a  go  at  shovelling 
I  was  in  Cincinnati.  A  sewer  was  being 
dug  in  one  of  the  main  streets,  and  I 
was  put  on  with  some  other  men  at 
seven  in  the  morning.  The  night  before 
I  had  wandered  around  the  city,  because 
I  had  no  money  to  get  a  bed.  I  was 
hardly  in  a  condition  to  begin  work. 
Still,  there  was  no  alternative.  It  was 
either  work  or  starve.  Indeed,  it  was 
work  and  starve,  too,  for  when  twelve 
o'clock  came — lunch  time — I  could  get 
no  lunch.  I  could  not  get  a  sub  from 
the  boss  as  a  navvy  could  in  England. 
It  must  always  be  remembered  that  the 
conditions  surrounding  labouring  work 
in  the  States  are  much  more  pitiless  than 
they  are  in  England. 

So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
work  all  day  without  anything  to  eat. 
When  we  stopped  at  six  in  the  evening 
I  was  hopeless  as  to  being  able  to  con- 
tinue at  the  work,  but,  as  good  fortune 


ioo          A  Man  Adrift 

would  have  it,  I  was  lucky  enough  to 
be  taken  by  one  of  the  timberers  to  his 
boarding-house.  But  for  that  I  would 
have  lost  the  work,  and  in  addition  to  it 
my  day's  pay,  for  the  contractor  only 
paid  once  a  month,  and  I  could  not  have 
waited  round  for  the  sake  of  a  dollar  and 
a  half.  I  have  often  known  men  in 
America  to  have  to  give  up  work  because 
they  could  neither  get  food  nor  shelter. 

The  shovelling  in  this  sewer  was  very 
hard  work  indeed.  A  system  of  "  run- 
ning "  was  in  vogue  there.  There  was  a 
man  in  each  gang  of  shovellers  who  was 
secretly  paid  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  a  day 
more  than  the  rest.  He  would  work,  of 
course,  as  hard  as  he  could,  and  anyone 
in  the  gang  who  could  not  or  would  not 
keep  up  with  him  was  at  once  discharged. 
Added  to  this,  the  sun  was  burning  the 
life  out  of  one.  I  have  seen  poor,  half- 
starved  men  have  to  give  up  work  in 
less  than  an  hour  because  the  pace  was 
so  killing.  This  sort  of  murder-work 
gives  the  answer  to  the  question  as  to 
why  there  are  so  many  tramps  in  the 


Shovelling  101 

United  States.  I  was  glad  when  the 
end  of  the  month  came,  and  I  was  able 
to  draw  what  money  was  coming  to  me 
and  to  go  on  my  way. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  shovelling  of  all 
is  the  shovelling  of  sand.  I  had  an  ex- 
perience of  this  in  British  Columbia. 
I  worked  there  or  four  days  unloading 
sand-scows  in  the  harbour  of  Vancouver. 
The  pay  was  thirty  cents  an  hour — a 
rate  of  three  dollars  a  day.  After  the 
first  day's  work  I  was  so  tired  that  I  felt 
as  if  I  could  lie  down  and  die.  I  had 
a  strained,  sore  feeling  all  over  my  body. 
I  was  hardly  able  to  eat  my  supper. 

Right  here  I  would  like  to  explode  the 
fallacy  to  the  effect  that  extreme  intel- 
lectual labour  is  more  severe  than  extreme 
manual  labour.  I  have  tried  both,  and 
I  must  say  that  my  verdict  is,  Give  me 
intellectual  labour  every  time.  It  is 
cleaner  in  the  first  place ;  in  the  second 
place  there  are  no  degrading  conditions 
surrounding  it ;  and,  in  the  third  place, 
it  is  certainly  less  monotonous.  Again, 
the  world  attaches  real  dignity  to  in- 


102          A  Man  Adrift 

tellectual  labour,  while  the  dignity  that  is 
attached  to  manual  labour  smacks  too 
much  of  the  legendary  and  mythical. 
The  people  who  prate  of  the  superior 
exhaustive  quality  of  brain  labour  are 
invariably  people  who  have  not  tried 
both.  They  give  forth  their  judgment 
with  all  the  confidence  of  ignorance.  To 
be  just,  however,  I  must  admit  that  it 
is  a  politic  thing  to  let  the  navvy  know 
all  about  the  hardships  of  intellectual 
labour. 

But  let  us  go  back  to  the  art  of 
shovelling  sand.  The  reason  that  sand 
is  so  much  harder  work  to  shovel  than 
gravel  or  cinders,  or  coal  or  clay,  is 
because  every  time  you  sink  your  shovel 
into  the  sand  you  get  exactly  the  same 
amount  and  weight  upon  it,  and  the 
efforts  you  have  to  make  in  pitching  it 
off  are  absolutely  uniform.  Making  the 
same  effort  of  strength  through  several 
hours  at  a  stretch  is  most  tiring.  The 
muscles  get  no  chance  to  rest  or  recover. 
In  the  shovelling  of  clay  or  coal,  or  any- 
thing that  breaks  up  unevenly,  the 


Shovelling  103 

efforts  made  in  pitching  vary  with  the 
different  weights  and  sizes  that  get  upon 
the  shovel.  Slight  though  this  difference 
may  be,  it  still  is  enough  to  cause  a 
continuous  relaxing  and  tightening  of 
the  muscles.  Thus  the  muscles  get  some 
chance  to  rest  and  recover  through  the 
variation  of  the  efforts  made.  And  at 
the  end  of  the  day  a  man  is  nothing  near 
so  tired  as  he  would  be  after  a  day's 
work  at  shovelling  sand. 

In  Vancouver  I  got  a  job  with  a  road- 
making  gang.  I,  with  others,  worked 
up  the  soil  so  that  the  stones  could  be 
laid.  The  soil  was  clay,  and  we  shovelled 
it  into  the  carts,  which  were  drawn  off 
by  mules  and  dumped  somewhere  out- 
side the  town.  We  were  paid  at  the 
rate  of  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  day. 
After  working  the  first  half  day,  I  hit 
upon  a  scheme  for  making  the  shovelling 
easier.  The  clay  was  apt  to  stick,  and 
one  had  to  jerk  the  shovel  hard  in  the 
pitching  to  get  it  off.  This  didn't  suit 
me  a  little  bit.  My  sole  aim  when  I  was 
navvying  was  to  work  as  easily  as  I 


IO4          A  Man  Adrift 

possibly  could  without  getting  the  sack. 
Thus  when  I  pitched,  I  did  not  give 
the  shovel  the  necessary  jerk.  The 
result  was  that  it  was  always  half-filled 
with  clay.  I  only  threw,  therefore,  half 
a  shovelful  into  the  cart  at  every  pitch. 
I  had,  of  course,  a  full  shovel's  weight 
to  swing  each  time,  but  I  saved  the 
extra  jerk.  My  method  was  decidedly 
immoral,  as  far  as  regard  for  the  interest 
of  the  contractor  was  concerned,  but  it 
certainly  possessed  the  tangible  merit  of 
being  easier  for  myself.  Shovelling 
hardly  develops  a  feeling  for  ethics. 

After  a  time,  a  man  who  works  at 
shovelling  will  begin  to  find  himself 
getting  muscle-bound.  I  mean  that  he 
will  find  himself  getting  slow  and  stiff 
and  clumsy  in  his  movements.  The 
reason  for  this  is  because  a  particular 
set  of  muscles  are  developed  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  rest.  The  man  who 
has  become  muscle-bound  will  find,  if 
he  ever  gets  into  a  fight,  that  he  can 
give  but  a  bad  account  of  himself.  He 
will  be  slow  and  awkward,  and  always 


Shovelling  105 

in  the  way  of  the  other  man's  blows. 
He  may  be  much  stronger  than  his 
opponent,  but  he  will  be  unable  to  strike 
a  blow  that  is  anywhere  near  in  pro- 
portion to  his  strength.  It  grieves  me 
to  have  to  say  that  my  once-upon-a-time 
comrade,  the  navvy,  is  the  easiest  man 
going  to  beat  in  a  fight.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  to  keep  out  from  him.  And 
when  you  are  prodding  him  for  the  good 
of  his  health,  see  that  he  doesn't  get 
hold  of  you. 


IX.— AT  SHAFT  19 

IT  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  got 
a  job  at  Shaft  19.  The  foreman,  Tom 
Connelly,  told  me  to  come  on  with  the 
night  shift  at  seven  o'clock,  so  I  went 
over  to  the  shanty  to  wait  for  supper, 
look  round  generally,  and  see  which 
bunk  I  would  have  to  sleep  in.  The 
bunks  were  arranged  in  the  sleeping 
shanty  in  something  after  the  same  way 
that  bunks  are  arranged  in  the  fo'castle 
of  a  ship.  In  each  were  two  blankets 
and  a  mattress. 

I  was  glad  when  six  o'clock  came — 
supper-time  —  for  I  had  not  yet  broken 
my  fast  that  day,  and  I  had  walked  up 
from  New  York  into  the  bargain  —  a 
distance  of  about  eighteen  miles. 

A  Chinaman  stood  outside  the  door 
of  the  shanty  where  the  meals  were 
served.  He  was  pounding  on  a  gong. 
1 06 


At  Shaft   19  107 

Men  rushed  from  every  direction — from 
the  mouth  of  the  shaft,  where  a  load  of 
grimed  navvies  were  pouring  forth  from 
the  up-cage,  from  the  sleeping-shanty, 
from  all  places  around.  They  seemed  to 
spring  up  out  of  the  ground.  The  idea 
was  to  get  to  the  first  laying  of  the  table. 
Missing  it  would  mean  that  you  would 
have  to  wait.  I  didn't  miss  it. 

What  a  mob  of  us  there  was  in  the 
shanty !  Eating  and  drinking  and  shout- 
ing and  laughing  and  talking.  They  were 
a  grimy  mob,  to  be  sure,  but  not  a  dirty 
mob.  There  is  a  difference  between 
grime  and  dirt.  The  white  races  of  the 
earth  were  nearly  all  represented.  You 
heard  English,  French,  German,  and 
Russian  spoken  and  shouted  all  at  once. 
And  other  languages,  too.  It  was  a  jolly, 
noisy  crowd.  Nothing  of  the  down- 
trodden atmosphere  about  them.  They 
had  the  magnetism  that  comes  from 
actual  contact  with  the  earth. 

The  supper  was  good  and  wholesome, 
and  there  was  plenty  of  it — cold,  sliced 
meat,  steaming  hot  coffee  and  tea,  good 


io8          A  Man  Adrift 

bread  and  butter,  potatoes,  sliced  tomatoes 
that  were  delicious,  and  fragrant,  sweet 
corn.  I  fell  to  like  a  wolf.  After  all, 
there  is  a  lot  in  life  when  you  can  eat 
well  and  heartily.  How  the  knives  and 
forks  and  plates  clashed  and  rattled ! 
"  Hey !  John,  bring  us  some  more  meat 
here ! "  a  fellow  would  shout  to  the  silent, 
busy,  rushing  Chinaman.  You  heard 
orders  to  this  effect  in  badly-twisted 
languages  of  all  kinds.  I  enjoyed  that 
meal.  After  it  I  felt  that  I  could  tackle 
a  mountain. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  stood  with  a  crowd 
of  men  in  the  cage.  We  were  ready  to 
go  down  the  shaft.  There  were  two 
cages.  One  went  up  as  the  other  went 
down.  The  corners  of  them  fitted  into 
slides  that  were  fastened  along  the 
straight,  steep  sides  of  the  shaft.  They 
were  pulled  up  and  let  down  by  a  power- 
ful engine  that  stood  off  about  thirty 
yards  away.  If  the  wire  broke  to  which 
the  cage  was  suspended,  a  powerful  spring 
suddenly  pushed  out  two  immense  steel 
claws  or  catches,  which  fastened  on  to  the 


At  Shaft   19  109 

big  wooden  beams  lining  the  shaft.  Thus 
the  cage  was  held,  and  the  men  were 
saved  from  being  dashed  to  death  at  the 
bottom.  They  could  wait  calmly  till  help 
came.  So  said  the  man  who  invented  the 
spring  and  catches. 

Suddenly  we  sank  down  into  the  thick 
black  gloom  of  the  shaft.  Some  of  the 
crowd  had  candles,  and  little  kettle-shaped 
tin  oil  lamps  fastened  in  the  front  of  their 
hats.  These  hats  were  shaped  like  sailors' 
sou'-westers,  so  as  to  keep  the  water 
which  dripped  from  the  roof  of  the  tunnel 
from  going  down  their  necks.  Candles 
and  little  lamps  were  lighted  now  as  we 
were  sinking  down  the  shaft.  I  caught  a 
blurred  glimpse  of  a  straight,  threatening 
black  wall,  lined  with  huge  timbers.  I 
felt  a  sinking  sensation  in  the  pit  of  the 
stomach,  and  a  whizzing  in  the  head. 
The  pace  at  which  we  were  sinking  was 
terrific.  And  it  seemed  as  if  we  were 
never  going  to  get  to  the  bottom. 

We  stopped  suddenly,  after  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  eternity,  though 
the  shaft  was  but  eight  hundred  feet  deep. 


no          A  Man  Adrift 

Out  of  the  cage  we  got,  and  we  were  now 
standing  beneath  the  roof  of  the  tunnel 
which  ran  north  and  south  into  the  earth. 
One  could  hear  in  places  the  steady  drip, 
drip  of  water.  There  were  twenty-eight 
tunnels  extending  from  Croton  to  New 
York.  The  human  gnomes  would  burrow, 
burrow,  north  and  south,  north  and  south, 
till  all  the  tunnels  met  and  formed  one 
great  tunnel  twenty-eight  miles  long. 
Through  this  tunnel  water  was  to  come 
from  Croton  for  the  people  of  New  York 
to  drink.  It  was  a  tremendous  job,  and 
thousands  of  men  were  at  work.  The 
contractors  boarded  them  at  the  rate  of 
four  dollars  a  week,  and  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  day  was  the  lowest  wages  paid. 

As  we  stood  in  the  tunnel  we  heard  a 
clank!  clank!  It  sounded  weirdly  and 
curiously  through  the  stillness  and  dark- 
ness. It  was  a  mule  drawing  a  car  along 
the  line  of  short-gauge  rails  which  ran 
along  the  floor  of  the  tunnel  from  the 
north  and  south  headings  to  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft.  The  headings  were  the 
extreme  points  north  and  south  to  which 


At  Shaft  19  in 

the     drillers    had     pierced    through    the 
rock. 

Now  we  were  up  in  the  north  heading. 
We  belonged  to  the  north  heading  gang. 
We  had  tramped  slowly  along  the  tunnel 
about  five  hundred  yards,  and  got  our 
picks  and  shovels  and  drills  and  machines 
from  a  car  on  the  way.  Other  men  were 
following  us  from  the  next  down-cage. 
Our  light  came  from  candles  and  lamps 
and  torches  ranged  along  the  wall  near  us 
A  fitful,  uncertain  light,  but  enough  for  us 
to  see  to  do  the  work.  I  was  in  the  pick- 
and-sbovel  gang  at  the  bottom  of  the 
bench — a  huge  mass  of  rock  shaped  like 
a  step,  on  the  top  of  which  was  the  narrow 
heading  where  the  machine  men  and 
their  helpers  were  now  getting  into 
position  their  machines  and  drills. 

At  the  foot  of  the  bench  was  a  great 
mass  of  broken  rock,  shattered  out  from 
the  bench  and  heading  by  the  dynamite- 
blast  of  the  last  shift.  This  we  had  to 
load  into  the  car,  which  was  drawn,  when 
full,  by  the  mule  to  the  cage  at  the  bottom 
of  the  shaft.  Then  it  would  be  hoisted 


H2          A  Man  Adrift 

up  and  dumped  out  on  the  ground  on  top. 
While  the  mule  was  away  we  were  loading 
up  another  car,  which  we  had  pushed  up 
ourselves  from  a  little  siding.  The  big 
pieces  of  rock  we  lifted  into  the  car  with 
our  hands.  We  used  our  shovels  for  the 
small  and  crumbled  pieces. 

Up  above  us  in  the  heading  the  machine 
drills  were  whirring,  crunching  and 
eating  into  the  rock.  Holes  were  being 
drilled  at  an  angle  from  either  side  of  the 
heading,  so  that  the  dynamite  would  blow 
out  triangular  sections  of  the  rock.  Holes 
were  being  drilled  down  perpendicularly 
into  the  bench.  In  awkward  parts  of  the 
heading,  or  bench,  where  a  machine  drill 
could  not  be  got  to  work,  men  were  hand- 
drilling.  Now  and  then  I  would  look  up 
and  see  flashing  the  bright,  smooth  faces 
of  the  seven -pound  sledges  as  they  were 
swung  round  and  round  by  strong-armed, 
grimy  men.  Clang  !  clang !  clang  !  The 
sledges  were  striking  the  heads  of  the 
steel  hand -drills  as  they  were  being 
turned  and  held  into  the  rock  by  peering, 
crouching  men.  Whirrrr  —  whirrrr  — 


At  Shaft   19  113 

whirrrr  were  going  the  machine-drills, 
driven  by  compressed  air.  It  was  a  chaos 
of  whirring  and  crunching  and  ringing  of 
driven  steel  and  hissing  of  the  escaping 
exhaust  of  air  and  crushing  of  rocks  into 
the  car,  and  shouts  of  "  Look  out  there  I " 
as  a  fellow  would  pinch  down  with  a 
lever  a  big  piece  of  rock  from  the  top  of 
the  bench.  We  would  jump  out  of  the 
way  as  the  great,  jagged  rock  crashed  past 
us.  Water  was  dripping,  dripping  down 
upon  us  from  the  roof.  We  had  to  look 
out  for  the  roof,  for  now  and  then  in 
the  tunnels  pieces  fell  from  above  and  men 
were  killed.  But  we  didn't  think  of  that 
much.  We  just  worked  and  worked 
along. 

There  was  a  curious  overpowering  smell 
of  earth  penetrating  everything.  We  were 
gnomes  buried  deep,  deep  down,  fighting 
and  crushing  our  way  through  the  dark 
hidden  rock.  Fighting  our  way  with 
steel  and  air  and  hammers  and  bursting 
frightful  dynamite,  and  the  power  of 
blood  and  bone  and  muscle.  We  were 
gnomes  gathered  here  from  all  parts  of 


H 


H4          A  Man  Adrift 

the  earth.  We  were  working  down  In 
darkness  and  shadows  and  fitful  glarings 
of  light  We  were  as  blind  men  fighting. 
We  could  see  nothing  but  blackness,  and 
solid,  iron  rock — rock  old  with  the  age  of 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  centuries. 
We  were  slowly  fighting  in  blackness. 
But  for  all  that  we  were  going  in  a  line 
that  was  straight  absolutely.  And  at  the 
same  time  there  were  twenty  -  eight 
tunnels  going  as  we  were  going — fifty- 
six  headings  in  all.  Fifty-six  gangs  of 
gnomes  who  in  time  would  meet.  And 
all  were  going  in  a  straight  line  abso- 
lutely— guided  by  the  sure,  piercing  eye 
of  Science. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  in  the  north 
heading  of  Shaft  19.  The  work  was 
more  interesting  than  navvying  work 
usually,  so  one  hardly  noticed  the  time 
going.  The  noise  and  the  curious 
picturesqueness  of  the  surroundings  gave 
one  a  stimulus.  You  could  carry  on  a 
shouting  conversation  with  the  fellow 
working  alongside  you.  Even  if  you 
didn't  know  his  language,  at  least  you 


At  Shaft   19  115 

could  manage  to  exchange  some  ideas 
with  him,  for  the  navvies  had  a  tunnel 
slang  as  sailors  have  a  ship  slang.  Shaft 
19  was  not  the  first  shaft  at  which  I  had 
worked,  so  I  knew  the  ropes. 

Twelve  o'clock  was  upon  us  before  we 
knew  where  we  were,  and  we  stopped  to 
get  something  to  eat.  A  cold  luncheon 
was  brought  down  for  us  in  big  baskets  to 
the  bottom  of  the  shaft.  We  left  the 
heading  in  a  body,  and  walked  down  the 
tunnel,  and  sat  on  and  around  the  down- 
cage  to  eat  our  grub.  We  washed  it 
down  with  cold  tea  or  water.  Some  of 
the  fellows  produced  bottles  of  beer  which 
they  had  stowed  away  in  safe  places. 
This  meal  was  a  quiet  one.  None  of  us 
had  much  to  say.  The  spell  of  midnight, 
darkness,  and  gloom  was  falling  upon  us. 
The  sudden  silence  after  the  noise  and 
movement  affected  us.  You  would  hardly 
believe  that  we  were  part  of  the  same 
crowd  who  had  had  supper  together  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  If  men 
spoke  at  all,  they  spoke  in  low,  subdued 
tones.  And  the  drip !  drip !  of  the  water 


n6          A  Man  Adrift 

from  the  roof  gave  a  weirdness  to  the 
overhanging  silence. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  now, 
and  we  were  back  again  in  the  heading. 
The  work  was  going  on  as  before,  but 
there  was  a  difference  in  the  men.  They 
were  becoming  so  silent.  And  as  one 
o'clock  merged  into  two  o'clock,  and  two 
o'clock  into  three  o'clock,  they  were  silent 
as  ghosts.  Men  moved  round  like 
phantoms.  They  were  swinging  ham- 
mers and  lifting  rocks  and  using  picks 
and  shovels.  But  it  was  as  if  the  life  of 
the  men  had  gone  into  the  tools  and 
rocks — as  if  they  were  but  attendant 
ghosts. 

At  half-past  five  we  had  cleared  up  all 
the  loose  rocks.  We  were  getting  ready 
to  blast.  The  drillers  were  sponging  out 
the  holes  they  had  drilled  through  the 
long  night.  And  then  two  wooden  boxes, 
about  a  foot  and  a  half  square  each,  were 
carefully  carried  up  into  the  heading.  If 
a  box  fell  from  the  arms  of  the  man  who 
was  carrying  it,  it  might  mean  sudden  and 
frightful  death  for  every  man  of  us,  for 


At  Shaft   19  117 

each  box  was  filled  with  dynamite.  It 
was  in  the  shape  of  big  cartridges  from 
ten  to  twelve  inches  long.  Dynamite  is 
an  ugly  thing  to  handle.  One  can  never 
tell  what  amount  of  shock  will  set  it  off. 

We  loaded  up  the  picks  and  shovels 
and  drills  and  machines  into  two  cars 
which  we  pushed  down  the  tunnel  far 
enough  to  be  away  from  the  actual 
destroying  effect  of  the  blast.  Then  we 
got  some  distance  behind  them,  and 
waited.  By  this  time  the  holes  in  the 
bench  and  heading  were  primed  and 
filled,  and  the  heading  boss  was  stand- 
ing near  us  ready  to  touch  off  the 
dynamite  with  an  electric  battery. 

He  touched  if  off. 

I  had  been  down  in  tunnels  before 
when  the  dynamite  had  been  set  off  by 
the  connecting  battery,  and  therefore 
knew  what  was  coming.  The  best  way 
to  stand  the  tremendous,  horrible  shock 
was  to  let  yourself  go  limp.  If  you 
braced  yourself  hard  it  was  all  the  worse 
for  you.  The  shock  was  all -seizing. 
Even  your  power  of  will  could  make  no 


n8          A  Man  Adrift 

headway  against  it  In  fact,  it  would 
be  better  if  you  did  not  know  it  was 
coming  at  all.  Imagine  it!  You  were 
two  hundred  yards  away  from  a 
terrific  explosion  that  rushed  along  a 
space  twenty  by  twenty  feet,  in  a  direct 
line.  Its  power  was  confined  and  kept 
intact  just  as  is  the  exploding  powder  in 
the  bore  of  a  cannon.  In  fact,  it  was  as 
if  you  were  standing  inside  a  gigantic 
cannon.  You  felt  the  shock  of  death 
without  being  dashed  to  death.  Your 
body,  your  blood,  your  brain,  your  will 
were  struck  violently  and  horribly. 

After  the  blast  we  got  into  the  cage  and 
went  up  into  the  clear  morning  air.  It 
was  summer-time,  and  the  sun  was  up. 
It  was  fine  to  see  and  feel  it  after  being 
down  in  the  darkness  for  eleven  hours. 
We  washed  ourselves  and  then  went 
over  to  the  shanty  to  get  breakfast. 
And  after  that  we  turned  in. 


X.— IN  PRISON 


NEW  ORLEANS  is  a  picturesque  town  built 
upon  a  swamp.  It  lies  in  the  form  of  a 
crescent  round  a  bend  of  the  Mississippi, 
the  waters  of  which  are  eighteen  inches 
higher  than  the  level  of  the  town.  A 
levee  has  been  built  to  protect  it,  but  the 
inhabitants  say  that,  some  time  or  another, 
the  town  will  be  swept  away  by  the  over- 
rushing  of  the  great  river.  Thus  there  is 
a  shadow  for  ever  hanging  over  New 
Orleans.  But  the  town  is  gay  and  bright 
and  full  of  life.  It  is  a  French  town, 
that  has  become  Americanised.  Here 
gambling  goes  on — day  in  day  out,  night 
in  night  out,  year  in  year  out.  Wheels 
whirr,  balls  roll,  cards  shuffle  on  for 
ever. 

The    gambling-houses    are    on    Royal 
119 


120          A  Man  Adrift 

Street.  They  are  fitted  up  in  luxurious 
fashion.  They  may  be  blamable  institu- 
tions, but  at  least  they  are  democratic. 
All  may  enter,  it  matters  not  how  shabby 
the  attire,  or  how  disreputable  and  low 
down  the  appearance.  If  a  man  has  no 
money  to  get  himself  a  place  to  sleep  at 
night,  he  may  go  in  and  sit  down.  He  is 
welcome  to  share  the  light  and  warmth. 
The  tramp  may  jostle  elbows  with  the 
rich,  well-groomed  blood,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  censure  or  to  eject.  A  man  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  meanness  of  dress, 
for  no  one  notices  or  criticises.  The  lust 
after  gold  is  a  passion  that  brings  men 
to  a  common  level. 

How  quaint  and  beautiful  is  the  French 
Market!  Here  may  be  got  the  most 
delicious  coffee  in  the  world.  Its  effect 
upon  one  is  like  that  of  some  rare  old 
wine.  It  warms  and  soothes  from  crown 
to  toe.  An  old  negro,  white-capped  and 
white-aproned,  may  serve  it  to  you  across 
a  stall.  Around  in  the  market  is  the 
huny  and  bustle  of  buying  and  selling. 
But  there  is  in  the  hurry  and  bustle  a 


In  Prison  121 

suggestion  of  languor.  It  is  not  the 
hurry  and  bustle  of  the  North.  People 
pass,  chattering  the  Creole  patois  ;  negroes 
cry  out  the  merits  of  their  wares  in  shrill, 
wheezy  voices  ;  flower-girls  arrange  and 
tie  up  bunches  of  flowers ;  horses  and 
carts  back  and  start  again  ;  drivers  shower 
promiscuous  benedictions;  baskets  are 
everywhere. 

If  you  are  hard  up  and  hungry  in  this 
town,  and  you  possess  a  dime,  you  may 
go  to  a  saloon  on  the  corner  of  Royal 
Street  and  get  a  sumptuous  free  lunch — 
as  much  as  ever  you  can  eat  of  the  best 
food.  A  chef  will  serve  you  with  a  cut 
from  the  joint,  and  a  dish  of  delicious 
soup  if  you  get  there  between  certain 
hours.  I  have  gone  into  this  saloon 
suffering  from  a  twenty-four  hours'  fast, 
and  I  have  come  out  into  the  street  again 
full  and  satisfied,  and  at  peace  with  the 
world  in  general. 

Canal  Street  at  night  presents  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  city  sights  of  the 
world.  It  is  very  wide,  and  is  lit  up  by 
electric  lights,  which  shine  from  the  tops 


122         A  Man  Adrift 

of  columns.  These  columns  stand  in  the 
centre  of  the  street,  extending  along  for 
miles.  The  effect  of  the  lights  piercing 
in  a  straight  line  through  the  distance  is 
fine. 

On  the  levee  at  night  the  negro  roust- 
abouts collect  together  and  sing  quaint, 
strange  part-songs.  Often  they  have  fine 
voices,  and  the  harmonic  effects  they  get 
are  peculiar  and  beautiful.  They  are  a 
happy-go-lucky  lot  of  fellows,  who  work 
like  dogs  during  the  day — for  roustabout- 
ing on  a  Mississippi  steamboat  is  the 
hardest  work  imaginable  —  and  forget 
about  it  at  night  over  their  songs. 

New  Orleans !  A  strange  town.  Its 
air  is  bright  and  clear,  and  its  sunshine 
full  and  golden.  And  beautiful  orange 
trees  are  in  the  gardens.  But  in  the  air 
there  lurks  disease,  dread  and  foul.  In 
the  clearness  hangs  death.  Overhanging 
is  the  eternal  threat  of  the  river.  But 
still  is  the  town  bright  and  gay — for  it 
lies  under  the  shadow  of  destruction. 
******* 

In  this  town  I  spent  a  month  in  prison. 


In  Prison  123 

I  was  standing  on  the  levee  talking 
with  two  other  sailors,  when  a  policeman 
came  along.  He  at  once  began  to  ques- 
tion us  as  to  who  we  were,  and  what  we 
were  going  to  do,  and  how  much  money 
we  had.  I  explained  to  him  that  we  were 
on  the  look-out  for  a  job  ,of  unloading 
freight  from  a  ship,  and  that  we  had 
been  working  together  lately  on  John 
Diamond's  plantation.  "  No  matter,"  he 
said.  "  How  much  money  have  you  ?  "  I 
had  two  dollars,  and  the  other  fellows 
had  none.  "  If  you  can't  show  me  that 
you  have  ten  dollars  apiece,  I  will  arrest 
the  three  of  you,"  concluded  the  police- 
man. I  pointed  out  to  him  the  injustice 
of  the  whole  thing,  and  asked  him  if  that 
were  the  way  they  did  things  in  the 
"  Land  of  the  Free."  But  he  was  obdur- 
ate. When  I  found  out  that  he  was 
really  going  to  do  what  he  said,  I  had 
a  notion  to  knock  him  down  and  get 
away.  But  there  were  other  policemen 
in  sight,  and  it  would  only  have  ended 
in  our  being  shot.  We  submitted  to  the 
arrest. 


124          A  Man  Adrift 

We  were  taken,  and  that  night  we  were 
shut  up  with  some  others  in  the  calaboose 
on  the  levee.  There  were  about  twenty 
of  us  in  all  —  negroes  and  white  men. 
The  fact  of  being  arrested  did  not  seem 
to  weigh  much  on  any  of  us.  We  were 
comforted  by  the  curious  philosophy  that 
goes  with  poverty  and  misfortune.  None 
of  us  had  had  the  requisite  ten  dollars 
necessary  to  ensure  us  our  liberty.  So 
we  made  the  best  of  it.  I  sent  out  for 
some  beer  with  the  two  dollars  I  had — 
we  were  allowed  this  privilege  if  we  paid 
for  it — and  we  made  merry.  It  is  easy 
and  natural  to  make  merry  with  people 
who  are  in  the  same  boat  as  yourself. 
We  told  stories,  compared  notes,  and  sang 
songs.  One  negro  had  a  most  beautiful 
voice.  It  was  a  voice  of  sweet,  mournful 
timbre.  Through  it  ran  the  sadness  of 
the  life  of  the  slave.  The  man  who  sang 
had  not  been  a  slave,  but  he  was  born 
with  the  sense  of  the  degradation  of  being 
flogged,  and  bought  and  sold.  He  sang 
"Carry  me  back  to  Ole  Virginny" — the 
song  of  the  slave  who  had  been  sold 


In  Prison  125 

away  from  the  place  where  he  was  born. 
This  negro  sang  more  than  anyone  else. 
His  voice  seemed  to  chime  in  with  the 
spirit  of  the  situation.  After  all,  we 
were  nothing  but  white  and  black  slaves 
together. 

And  so  the  night  wore  away. 

It  was  not  till  a  long  time  after  that  I 
learned  the  real  reason  of  our  arrest.  It 
seems  that  an  election  was  going  on,  and 
the  party  in  power  took  the  precaution 
of  arresting  all  the  strangers  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on.  They  were  afraid  the 
other  side  would  bribe  them  to  vote. 
Such  a  simple  thing  as  the  stranger  being 
an  alien  could  be  easily  got  over  by 
supplying  him  with  a  name  and  an  ad- 
dress. The  buying  and  selling  of  votes 
is  one  of  the  staple  industries  of  the 
United  States.  Why  the  party  in  power 
did  not  bribe  the  strangers  themselves 
was  rather  a  puzzle.  It  may  have  been 
that  it  was  cheaper  to  clap  them  into 
gaol,  for  they  would  not  only  have  to 
give  them  no  money,  but  they  could  even 
make  a  profit  on  them  while  in  prison 


A  Man  Adrift 

by  charging  up  their  maintenance  to  the 
State. 

When  we  were  brought  up  before  the 
Justice  the  next  morning,  I  spoke  out 
stiff  and  strong.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  was  proud  to  own  that  I  was 
an  Englishman.  I  said  I  was  glad  that 
Fate  had  so  willed  it  that  I  had  been 
born  in  the  north  of  England.  I  had 
inherited  a  prejudice  against  everything 
English  with  my  Irish  blood.  But  now 
my  prejudice  had  received  a  shock.  After 
everything  was  said  and  done,  England 
was  absolutely  the  freest  country  in  the 
world.  She  practised  the  principles  of 
freedom,  while  America  only  boasted  in 
a  blatant  way  about  them. 

I  talked  like  this  to  the  Justice,  but  I 
am  afraid  that  I  only  produced  a  bad 
impression  upon  him.  Americans  don't 
like  their  country  or  their  institutions  to 
be  criticised. 

We  were  sent  to  prison  for  a  month. 


In  Prison  127 


ii 


IN  prison,  a  man  who  is  given  to  the 
habit  of  thinking  passes  through  many 
mental  stages.  Shut  off  from  the  world 
outside,  the  whole  of  his  mind  as  it  were 
passes  in  review  before  him.  He  sees 
into  its  most  obscure  fold  and  depth.  His 
imagination  becomes  freer — more  powerful. 
The  small,  harsh  world  into  which  he  has 
been  thrown  has  no  power  to  cramp  it. 
He  passes  through  a  curious,  ripening 
experience.  The  reason,  or  crime,  for 
which  he  is  made  to  suffer  can  have  no 
effect  upon  him  in  the  way  of  making 
him  downcast,  for  it  will  require  but  a 
slight  effort  of  his  intellect  to  show  him 
that  he  is  being  made  a  scapegoat — that 
he  is  being  made  to  suffer  because  he  has 
been  bold  enough  to  realise  in  action  an 
idea  he  shares  in  common  with  other 
men.  The*  partition  that  separates  the 
criminal  from  what  is  called  the  honest 
man  is  made  of  the  thinnest  tissue  paper 
imaginable. 


128          A  Man  Adrift 


in 


I  HAD  committed  no  crime,  but  I  realised 
that  I  was  none  the  better  for  that. 
Better  men  than  I  had  committed  crime. 
In  fact,  I  regretted  bitterly  that  I  had 
not  done  something.  It  was  so  stupid  to 
be  thrown  into  prison  for  nothing.  The 
law  punishes,  but  it  certainly  has  no 
contempt  for  the  desperate  law-breaker. 
Indeed,  it  shows  practically  that  it  has  a 
respect  for  him.  But  for  the  failures  and 
hard-ups  and  unfortunates  the  law  has 
not  only  punishment,  but  contempt. 

There  were  about  as  many  negroes  as 
whites  in  this  prison.  The  whites  were 
herded  together  in  two  great  cells. 
Where  the  negroes  were  put  I  don't 
know.  In  the  daytime  we  shared  in 
common  the  freedom  of  the  big  yard. 
The  negroes  and  whites  usually  kept 
themselves  apart,  however.  The  race 
distinction  was  perhaps  more  sharply 
drawn  here  than  in  the  world  outside. 
There  was  a  white  captain  of  the  yard 


In  Prison  129 

and  a  black  captain  of  the  yard — prisoners 
in  favour  with  the  chief  warder,  who  were 
told  off  to  keep  order  amongst  the  men 
of  their  respective  races.  These  captains 
carried  heavy  clubs,  and  they  had  the 
power  to  knock  down  any  man  who  was 
disorderly  or  insubordinate.  There  was 
no  work  for  the  prisoners  to  do  beyond 
the  cleaning  out  of  the  cells.  This  was 
unfortunate,  for  it  made  the  time  hang 
wearily  on  one's  hands.  We  could  talk 
with  each  other,  however. 

We  wore  the  clothes  in  which  we  were 
sentenced.  For  food  we  were  given  a 
small  loaf  of  bread  each  day,  and  a  pint 
of  alleged  coffee  in  the  morning  and 
evening.  The  bread  was  nothing  near 
enough  to  satisfy  us.  Everyone  of  us 
suffered  from  hunger.  I  was  hungry 
during  the  whole  month  I  was  there.  I 
used  to  wake  up  at  night  dreaming  that 
I  was  eating  plentifully.  When  we  were 
eating  the  bread  we  would  carefully  watch 
for  and  pick  up  and  eat  the  crumbs  that  fell. 
It  is  astonishing  how  delicious  dry  bread 

can  taste  when  a  man  is  really  hungry. 
I 


130          A  Man  Adrift 

To  amuse  themselves  the  warders  would 
sometimes  pitch  loaves  of  bread  to  the 
prisoners.  The  sight  was  most  sickening. 
Hungry  white  men  and  black  men  would 
sprawl  and  tumble  in  a  heap  together, 
fighting  like  wolves  for  the  bread.  The 
warders  would  stand  off  enjoying  it.  Now 
a  nigger  would  clutch  a  loaf  from  a  white 
man.  Now  the  white  man  would  tear  it 
from  him  again.  And  as  they  fought 
they  would  send  out  sharp,  clear,  wolf-like 
cries. 

There  were  about  fifty  men  in  the  cell 
in  which  I  was,  and  we  governed  our- 
selves— while  in  there — by  a  code  of  laws. 
These  laws  had  been  made  by  prisoners, 
and  had  been  handed  from  one  set  to 
another  for  years.  They  were  based  on 
the  same  principles  as  the  laws  governing 
a  country  or  any  society  —  modified,  of 
course,  by  the  surroundings.  We  had  a 
president,  a  judge,  a  sheriff,  and  other 
officers.  If  a  man  showed  a  particular 
aptitude  for  the  exercise  of  any  function, 
he  was  remembered  for  it,  and  when  he 
came  back  again  to  the  prison  he  was 


In  Prison  131 

elected  to  the  office,  if  it  were  at  all 
possible.  The  warders  never  interfered 
with  the  laws  of  the  prisoners. 

One  of  the  laws  of  the  cell  was  that  no 
man  should  steal  another's  bread.  The 
punishment  for  this  crime  was  a  severe 
flogging  with  a  belt,  "paddling,"  as  it  was 
called.  Whilst  I  was  there,  a  man  did 
steal  another  man's  bread/  He  was  found 
out  and  tried  for  the  offence.  The  judge 
of  the  cell  appointed  me  as  counsel  for 
the  defence.  The  trial  was  rather  long, 
and  was  as  serious  as  a  trial  could  be. 
The  issue  at  stake  was  a  grave  one,  and 
was  treated  in  the  same  spirit  that  a  grave 
issue  would  be  in  a  recognised  court  of 
law. 

The  chief  warder  stood  at  the  door  of 
the  cell,  listening  to  the  trial. 

I  cross-examined  the  witnesses  for  the 
prosecution.  I  must  say  that  the  judge 
allowed  me  rather  a  free  hand.  And  in 
the  end  I  won  my  case.  My  speech  for 
the  defence  was  applauded,  and  the  man 
was  let  go. 


132          A  Man  Adrift 


rv 

How  clear  and  beautiful  was  the  sky 
above  us  in  the  great  yard  where  we 
spent  the  day  !  We  would  walk  or  lounge 
about,  or  sit  down  and  tell  each  other  our 
histories  with  the  frankness  of  men  under 
a  common  ban.  There  was  one  man  in 
particular,  who  had  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  in  prisons.  He  was  a  burglar — a 
most  intelligent-looking  man,  with  blue 
eyes  and  an  indomitable  expression  of 
face.  He  talked  of  burglary  as  a  man 
would  talk  of  any  other  profession.  He 
knew  every  twist  and  turn  of  it — when 
to  break  into  a  house — the  kind  of  house 
to  break  into,  and  so  on.  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  his  was  a  profession 
which  called  into  play  a  tremendous  amount 
of  daring  and  natural  talent.  The  burglar 
had  been  ignominiously  gathered  in  with 
the  rest  of  us,  because  he,  too,  could  not 
show  ten  dollars. 

Also  there  was  a  young  English  fellow 
from    Birmingham.     He   was   little   more 


In  Prison  133 

than  a  boy.  He  had  a  fine,  open  face, 
with  blue  eyes,  a  trifle  hard.  This  young 
fellow  had  been  a  highway  robber,  and  I 
seemed  to  take  his  fancy.  He  thought 
that  we  would  do  well  if  we  took  the  road 
together.  It  took  two,  he  explained,  to 
hold  up  a  man  properly — one  to  cover  him 
with  the  pistol,  while  the  other  saw  that 
he  turned  out  all  his  wealth.  I  must 
confess  that  the  idea  had  for  me  a  great 
charm..  And  at  the  worst  I  would  have 
the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I  had  got 
into  gaol  for  doing  something.  Besides, 
one  could  live  well,  and  there  was  the 
excitement  of  never  knowing  what  would 
turn  up  next. 

Though  there  was  hardly  any  disci- 
pline, still  the  breaking  of  the  few 
prison-rules  that  did  exist  was  punished 
terribly.  Men  were  bound  up  and  tor- 
tured in  a  contrivance  called  the  stocks. 
The  stocks  was  really  a  rack.  A  man 
was  tied  up,  laid  upon  it,  and  tortured  by 
means  of  stretching  and  twisting  the 
joints  of  his  legs.  The  place  where  this 
racking  was  done  was  in  a  small  shanty — 


134         A  Man  Adrift 

painted  black— which  stood  off  over  in 
the  corner  of  the  yard.  I  never  saw  a 
man  racked,  but  I  have  seen  a  man 
hustled  into  the  shanty ;  and  afterwards 
I  have  heard  him  groaning  and  screaming. 
The  screaming  of  a  man  in  agony  is  a 
thing  that  can  never  be  forgotten. 

The  effect  upon  us  as  we  listened  to  it 
in  the  yard  was  awful.  We  stood  in 
groups,  cowed  and  disheartened,  for  no 
one  knew  whose  turn  would  come  next. 
The  cries  of  the  tortured  man  seemed  to 
get  into  the  blood,  and  affect  the  beating 
of  the  heart  The  cowed  negroes  and 
whites  would  look  at  each  other  fear- 
fully. In  these  horrible  moments  even 
the  sense  of  distinction  of  race  was  lost. 
We  were  fellow-prisoners  before  we  were 
negroes  or  whites. 

After  being  tortured  the  man  would  be 
taken  to  the  hospital. 

I  came  near  being  racked  myself 
through  having  a  quarrel  with  a  negro. 
We  had  some  dispute,  and  the  negro 
called  me  "  a  white  son  of  a ."  Com- 
ing from  the  mouth  of  a  black  man,  this 


In  Prison  135 

insult  was  the  most  odious  imaginable. 
According  to  the  feeling  of  white  men  in 
the  Southern  States  I  would  have  been 
justified  in  shooting  him  dead,  if  possible. 

I  stepped  back,  and  then  jumped  at 
the  negro,  striking  him  twice  in  the  face. 
He  went  down.  Then  I  stood  over  him, 
ready  to  knock  him  down  when  he  got 
up  again.  But  here  I  made  a  mistake, 
for  the  negro,  instead  of  getting  up 
simply  turned  his  body  round  and  got 
upon  his  hands  and  knees.  I  had  no 
idea  what  he  was  up  to,  and  as  I  was 
backing  away  from  him  he  suddenly 
flung  his  arms  round  my  ankles,  raised 
himself,  and  flung  me  clean  over  his 
head.  Before  I  could  realise  it  I  was 
lying  on  my  back,  with  the  negro's  weight 
upon  me.  Both  my  shoulders  were  touch- 
ing flat  on  the  ground,  and  try  as  I  might 
I  was  unable  to  move.  I  was  completely 
at  my  opponent's  mercy.  I  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  a  trick  commonly  practised  by 
the  roustabouts. 

I  looked  up  at  the  negro  and  waited. 
His  fist  was  raised,  but  he  didn't  strike. 


136          A  Man  Adrift 

As  I  was  wondering  what  would  be  the 
reason  of  this,  he  got  up  from  me 
suddenly  and  helped  me  to  my  feet.  The 
black  man  was  magnanimous.  He 
spared  me. 

The  whole  thing  was  over  in  a  few 
seconds.  For  some  reason  or  another 
the  black  captain  of  the  yard — who  was 
standing  near — ignored  the  fight. 

Just  as  the  crowd  that  had  collected 
around  us  was  dispersing,  the  chief 
warder  came  running  up.  His  eyes 
blazed  as  he  laid  his  hand  heavily  on 
my  shoulder.  I  was  in  for  it,  I  thought. 
"Who  struck  first?"  he  demanded.  The 
man  who  struck  first  would  be  the  man 
to  be  racked! 

"  I  did,"  I  said. 

I  felt  my  time  had  come.  I  would  be 
tortured.  And  fear  came  over  me  as  I 
looked  into  the  warder's  face.  "  It's  a 
damned  good  job  you're  a  white  man," 
he  said,  as  he  turned  away.  This  was 
the  end  of  the  incident.  My  colour  had 
saved  me. 

On  Sundays  we  attended   Divine  Ser- 


In  Prison  137 

vice.  We  all  looked  forward  to  this,  for 
it  was  a  pleasure  and  a  relief  to  feel  that 
one  was  a  man  once  more,  if  only  for  an 
hour.  We  knelt  before  the  altar  on  the 
same  terms  as  other  men.  And  indeed 
the  founder  of  our  religion  was  One  who 
was  hard  up  and  despised.  His  image 
was  there  before  us,  showing  Him  as  He 
suffered  an  awful  and  ignominious  death. 
He  would  have  understood  us  absolutely. 
The  Man  whose  name  would  live  while 
the  world  lasted  had  been  a  tramp  and 
a  criminal. 

Strange  thoughts  used  to  come  into 
my  mind  as  I  listened  to  the  rich,  full 
tones  of  the  organ  playing  in  the  little 
prison  church.  I  wondered  what  I  should 
do  when  I  got  out  into  the  world  again. 
Would  it  be  better  for  me  to  work  like  a 
dog  and  a  slave,  or  would  it  be  better  for 
me  to  go  and  rob  and  live  easy,  and  take 
my  chance?  Or  would  some  curious 
stroke  of  luck  happen  to  me  that  would 
lift  me  out  of  my  present  groove? 
Honesty  and  labouring  with  the  hands 
only  brought  degradation  and  contempt. 


138          A  Man  Adrift 

The  society  in  which  we  lived  was  based 
upon  the  principle  of  theft.  Not  such 
theft  as  the  burglar's  theft,  but  mean, 
cowardly,  safe  theft.  Christ  would  sooner 
have  taken  the  hand  of  the  burglar  than 
the  hand  of  the  business  man.  The 
meanest  and  worst  criminals  got  off  scot- 
free.  It  was  said  that  vengeance  over- 
took them.  But  it  was  only  said.  As 
a  rule  the  criminals  who  were  put  in 
prison  were  those  whose  crimes  savoured 
somewhat  of  nobility.  To  conquer  the 
world,  cunning,  fraud,  and  underhand 
violence  had  to  be  used.  What  was  the 
use  of  blinking  the  fact?  I  thought. 
Ministers  of  religion  were  traitors  who 
warped  the  teachings  of  Christ  so  that 
themselves  and  the  State  might  profit. 

Or  could  it  be,  I  thought  again,  that 
to  follow  out  the  teaching  of  the  Galilean 
was  impossible?  Could  it  be  that 
cowardly  theft  and  meanness,  and  lying, 
and  undtrhand  violence  was  the  right 
thing  after  all  ?  Was  even  the  very 
essence  of  Religion  but  a  subtle 
hypocrisy  ? 


In  Prison  139 


ONE  day  a  murder  was  committed  by 
one  of  the  warders.  I  saw  it  done  with 
my  own  eyes.  Nothing  was  ever  said 
about  it.  The  body  was  trundled  away, 
and  no  questions  asked. 

A  prisoner  was  suffering1  from  pellagra. 
He  ought  to  have  been  sent  at  once  to 
the  hospital,  but  this  warder  thought  it 
would  be  fun  to  give  him  a  cold  bath. 
He  was  taken  into  the  bath-house,  stripped, 
and  a  stream  of  Mississippi  water  was 
played  upon  him  from  the  hose.  To  fully 
understand  what  effect  this  water  would 
have  if  used  even  upon  a  strong  man,  I 
need  only  state  that  the  water  of  the  river 
was  not  far  from  freezing  point,  while  the 
temperature  of  the  air  was  about  eighty 
degrees.  The  water  must  have  been  at 
least  forty  degrees  colder  than  the  sur- 
rounding air.  Besides,  the  man  was 
already  in  a  weak,  exhausted  condition. 

The  warder  played  the  hose  upon  him 
as  he  crouched  and  shivered  in  the  bath, 


140          A  Man  Adrift 

and  he  was  dead  in  less  than  a  minute. 
I  saw  the  whole  thing,  for  I  was  in  the 
bath-house  at  the  time,  cleaning  up  the 
floor.  I  knew  the  man  was  dead  by  the 
huddled-up  way  in  which  he  was  lying. 
The  warder  was  still  playing  the  hose 
upon  him.  "Let  up,"  I  said.  "He's 
dead." 

The  warder  stopped  the  hose  and  came 
over  to  the  side  of  the  bath.  "  Are  you 
sure  ? "  he  asked  me.  "  Isn't  he  sham- 
ming ?  " 

I  reached,  and  turned  the  dead  man 
over  on  his  side,  and  placed  my  hand 
over  his  heart.  It  was  still.  The  man 
had  gone. 

"  Dead  as  a  stone,"  I  said  to  the  warder. 

"  Lift  him  out,  then,"  he  ordered. 

I  got  into  the  bath  and  lifted  out  the 
body. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  him.  The 
warder's  "  Lift  him  out,  then,"  was  his 
burial  service.  Nothing  more  was  said 
either  about  him  or  over  him.  A  cart 
was  brought,  and  I  lifted  the  murdered 
man  in,  and  he  was  trundled  away,  I 


In  Prison  141 

don't  know  where,  just  as  if  he  were  a 

dog. 

******* 

Curiously  enough,  when  the  end  of  the 
month  drew  near,  I  did  not  feel  as  much 
elation  as  I  thought  I  should  feel  at  the 
prospect  of  getting  my  liberty  again.  I 
suppose  in  time  one  would  get  used  to 
almost  any  set  of  surroundings.  The 
thing  that  I  thought  of  most  was  the 
chance  I  would  have  of  getting  a  full 
meal  again.  To  be  hungry  straight  on 
end  for  a  whole  month  is  terrible.  But 
where  would  I  get  the  meal  from  when 
I  did  get  out.  I  had  no  money,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  I  could  go 
in  New  Orleans.  Still,  I  would  be  glad 
to  have  my  liberty.  But  I  had  grown  to 
like  some  of  my  fellow-prisoners.  Going 
out  would  mean  parting  from  them.  I 
felt  that  I  would  drift  away  from  the 
two  men  who  would  be  let  out  with  me 
on  the  same  day.  Companionship  means 
a  lot  to  a  man  who  drifts  about  the  world 
alone. 

So   when   the    morning    came   for   my 


142          A  Man  Adrift 

release  I  felt  rather  sad.  And  somehow 
I  felt  afraid  to  face  things  again.  The 
month's  forced  inaction  had  lessened  my 
power  of  initiative.  The  surroundings 
and  the  bad  food  had  taken  the  spirit 
out  of  me. 

The  young  Birmingham  fellow  had 
gone  out  a  couple  of  days  before.  He 
said  he  would  be  on  hand  to  meet  me 
when  I  came  out.  But  I  felt  that  this 
was  rather  a  forlorn  hope.  Besides,  it 
struck  me  that  I  had  better  face  circum- 
stances alone.  And  who  could  tell  what 
might  turn  up?  I  might  on  the  corner 
of  a  street  find  a  purse !  Then  I  would 
go  and  buy  myself  a  good  breakfast — 
a  first-class  breakfast — and  after  I  would 
get  myself  some  clothes.  The  ones  I  had 
on  were  common  and  shabby-looking.  It 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  walk  around, 
clean,  and  feeling  like  a  man  once  more. 

My  spirits  began  to  rise. 

I  shook  hands  with  my  mates  in  the 
cell  when  the  warder  came  to  unlock  the 
door.  He  called  out  my  name  with  some 
others,  and  we  followed  him  out  into 


In  Prison  143 

the  yard  and  into  the  office  of  the  prison. 
Here,  after  some  formality,  we  were  let 
out  through  the  great  gate. 

As  I  crossed  the  street  a  woman  who 
was  passing  by  looked  at  me  curiously, 
and,  I  thought,  pityingly.  A  feeling  of 
shame  came  over  me,  and  I  hurried  away 
as  fast  as  I  could. 


XL—NO  MONEY! 

I  WAS  puzzled  as  to  what  to  do.  The 
country  was  flooded,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  no  chance  for  me  to  go  in  the 
direction  I  wished  to  go.  Water,  water 
was  everywhere — the  yellow  water  of  the 
Mississippi.  The  big  river  had  made  a 
twelve-hundred-yard  crevasse  in  the  levee 
below  New  Orleans.  It  was  swallowing 
up  the  country  from  three  directions — 
the  south,  the  east,  the  west.  The  only 
way  of  escape  was  by  a  narrow  strip  of 
hill-land  which  ran  to  the  north  up  into 
Texas. 

I  wanted  to  go  east,  to  New  Orleans. 
But  between  me  and  the  town  was  a 
two-hundred-mile  sheet  of  water.  The 
water  was  so  high  that  steamboats  were 
plying  over  the  country  between  Bayou 
Sale  and  New  Orleans.  Bayou  Sale 
was  the  place  where  I  was  at.  The  fact 
144 


No  Money  145 

of  the  steamboats  running  to  where  I 
wanted  to  go  did  not  help  me,  however. 
And  there  was  a  good  and  sufficient 
reason.  I  had  no  money  to  pay  my 
fare. 

I  cursed  my  luck  for  being  in  Louisiana 
during  the  flood  season.  If  things  had 
been  all  right  I  could  have  tramped  it. 
But  to  swim  it  was  a  large  order.  So 
I  began  to  think. 

Passing  me  were  niggers  and  their 
families  carrying  what  they  could  of 
their  belongings  up  the  narrow  strip  of 
hill-land.  They  were  homeless.  They 
had  been  flooded  out.  Those  who  had 
the  money  to  pay  their  way  were  going 
to  New  Orleans  on  the  steamboats. 
But  the  great  majority  of  them  were 
going  up  north — the  way  I  didn't  want 
to  go. 

Suddenly  the  way  out  of  the  difficulty 
flashed  upon  me.  What  a  fool  I  had 
been !  Why,  it  was  as  easy  as  rolling 
off  a  log. 

A  steamboat  was  to  go  to  New  Orleans 
in  half  an  hour.  She  was  moored  to  a 

K 


146          A  Man  Adrift 

tree  which  stood  on  the  top  of  a  slight 
rise  in  the  ground.  The  nigger  roust- 
abouts were  getting  freight  aboard  her, 
and  the  big  white  mate  was  blaspheming 
horribly  at  them — as  was  the  custom. 

I  swaggered  on  to  the  steamboat  with 
an  air  of  lordly  ease.  You'd  have  thought 
I  owned  it.  I  nodded  to  the  swearing, 
raucous-voiced  mate.  My  plan  was  a 
simple  one.  The  collector  would  not 
come  round  for  fares  till  the  boat  had 
been  out  at  least  an  hour.  Then  I 
would  tell  him  calmly  that  I  had  no 
money.  They  couldn't  put  me  off  into 
the  water — they  couldn't  turn  back — and 
they  couldn't  eat  me.  The  only  danger 
was  that  they  might  have  me  arrested 
when  we  got  to  New  Orleans.  This 
would  mean  a  month's  imprisonment  at 
least.  But  I  had  long  ago  realised  that 
one  must  take  some  risks  to  get  through 
life. 

So  I  waited. 

As  the  boat  steamed  along,  one  could 
see  the  awful  desolation  caused  by  the 
flood.  The  country  had  been  covered 


No  Money  147 

as  with  a  great  winding  sheet.  The  sugar 
crop,  houses,  property,  and  everything 
else  had  been  ruined.  The  bodies  of 
horses  and  cows  and  sheep  were  floating 
about.  They  had  either  been  left  behind 
in  the  hurry,  or  had  become  unmanage- 
able when  the  owners  tried  to  drive  them 
up  on  to  the  high  land.  Occasionally  a 
wooden  house  was  to  be  seen  floating  on 
its  side.  We  passed  by  immersed  towns 
and  villages.  All  that  was  to  be  seen  of 
them  were  the  tops  of  the  highest  houses 
and  the  spires  of  their  churches.  It  was 
a  scene  of  ruin  and  desolation. 

I  was  awakened  from  my  reverie  by 
the  collector  of  fares.  He  was  standing 
in  front  of  me,  waiting.  The  moment 
was  at  hand.  The  crisis  had  come. 
Now  I  must  play  my  part. 

I  looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  and 
smiled  easily.  "  I  have  no  money,"  I 
said  in  a  calm,  matter-of-fact  way.  I 
might  have  been  speaking  about  the 
flood  or  the  weather.  I  made  the 
remark  in  a  casual  fashion. 

He   smiled    also.     He   thought    I    was 


148          A  Man  Adrift 

joking,  and  Americans  have  always  time 
for  the  appreciation  of  a  joke.  "  Of 
course,"  he  said.  "  That's  all  right,  I 
guess.  Come  on.  Shell  out!"  He  had 
evidently  seen  my  lordly  swagger  as  I 
came  on  to  the  boat,  and,  putting  two 
and  two  together,  had  come  at  once  to 
the  conclusion  that  when  a  man  of  that 
style  and  ease  said  he  was  hard  up  he 
was  surely  not  in  earnest. 

But  I  gave  him  a  second  smile,  and 
repeated  my  assertion.  And  then  the 
smile  died  from  his  face.  He  grasped 
the  situation,  and  became  indignant. 

"What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by 
coming  aboard  the  boat,  then?"  he 
asked. 

"  My  dear  man,"  I  replied,  still  smiling, 
"  my  reason  for  coming  aboard  the  boat 
must  be  plain  to  you.  As  you  will 
probably  have  noticed,  the  country  is 
flooded.  And  I  can't  very  well  swim  to 
New  Orleans.  I  couldn't  stop  where  I 
was,  either.  So  I  did  the  only  thing 
left  for  me  to  do — I  came  on  board." 

"You  take  it  damned  easy."  ^ 


No  Money  149 

"Of  course.  You  don't  want  me  to 
weep  about  it,  do  you?" 

"  Do  you  know  that  we  can  put  you 
in  gaol  for  this  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  know  it.  But  I  have 
weighed  all  that.  Besides,  one  doesn't 
know  what's  going  to  happen.  And, 
anyway,  I'm  not  in  gaol  yet." 

He  laughed  a  little.  "  You're  a  beauty," 
he  remarked.  "Ho!"  he  shouted  to  the 
blaspheming,  raucous- voiced  mate.  "  This 
fellow's  had  the  gall  to  come  aboard  with- 
out the  money  to  pay  his  fare." 

The  mate  came  forward  and  eyed  me 
from  head  to  foot.  I  eyed  him  too.  He 
was  a  big,  powerful  fellow,  with  a  brutal, 
hard  face. 

He  let  forth  a  torrent  of  blasphemy, 
winding  up  with  "  I've  a  good  mind  to 
knock  hell  out  of  you." 

I  had  taken  the  man's  measure ;  in 
fact,  I  had  taken  the  measure  of  the 
whole  situation.  My  only  chance  was 
in  playing  a  stiff,  cool,  unafraid  game. 
There  was  a  risk  of  my  getting  used  up, 
and  getting  into  gaol  into  the  bargain. 


150          A  Man  Adrift 

I  decided  instantly  as  to  the  handling 
of  the  mate. 

"  Look  here,"  said  I,  going  up  close  to 
him,  and  looking  him  straight  and  hard 
,in  the  eyes.  "  Don't  talk  of  knocking 
hell  out  of  me.  I'd  like  to  see  you  or 
any  other  man  on  the  boat  try  it  on.  If 
I've  broken  the  law,  I'll  take  the  con- 
sequences when  I  get  to  New  Orleans. 
I  had  to  do  what  I  did,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it." 

He  glared  at  me,  and  moved  slightly. 
But  I  kept  my  eye  hard  on  his.  Then 
his  face  softened  a  little.  "  Well,  damn 
me,  partner,  but  you've  got  grit,  an)  how. 
Perhaps  we  won't  go  hard  on  you.  Do 
you  mind  working  your  passage?"  he 
concluded  suddenly. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  I  replied. 

"All  right.  Come  down  into  the 
stokehole  and  pass  coal,  and  when  we 
get  to  New  Orleans  you  can  help  to 
unload  freight." 

He  brought  me  down  into  the  stoke- 
hole, and  left  me  with  the  firemen — 
who,  by  the  way,  behaved  very  decently 


No  Money  151 

to  me.  They  were  white  men.  A  deck- 
hand had  brought  down  news  of  how  I 
had  tackled  the  collector  and  the  mate. 
As  everyone  was  afraid  of  the  mate,  my 
stock  went  up. 

They  gave  me  a  stiff  pull  of  whisky 
—of  which  I  was  in  need — and  they  gave 
me  some  grub.  They  wouldn't  let  me 
shovel  any  coal  for  them.  I  just  lay  and 
chatted  till  the  journey's  end. 

When  we  got  there  I  helped  to  unload 
the  freight,  as  agreed.  And  when  this 
was  done,  and  I  was  going  down  the 
gang-plank,  the  mate  called  me  back. 

"  Here's  a  quarter,"  he  said.  "Get  a 
drink."  And,  taking  the  quarter  with 
thanks,  I  went  ashore,  and  faced  up 
Royal  Street.  I  was  in  New  Orleans. 


XII.— THROUGH   THE  ROCKIES 

I  HAD  been  sailoring  on  Lake  Ontario, 
and  was  loafing  around  Toronto,  when 
suddenly  an  idea  struck  me  to  go  out  to 
the  Rockies.  Going  was  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world.  All  one  had  to  do 
was  to  pay  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railroad 
Company  a  dollar.  For  this  they  carried 
you  to  Fort  Donald,  in  British  Columbia 
— a  place  three  thousand  miles  west  of 
Toronto.  Fort  Donald  was  on  the  east 
side  of  the  great  mountain  chain. 

Carrying  a  man  three  thousand  miles 
for  a  dollar  seems  to  be  a  charitable  sort 
of  deed  for  a  railway  company  to  indulge 
in.  But  it  wasn't  so  charitable,  after  all, 
when  you  came  to  look  into  it.  They 
simply  wanted  to  ship  labourers  into  the 
Rockies  so  as  to  use  them  for  the  build- 
ing of  snow  sheds.  A  snow  shed  is  a 
great  wooden  platform  built  along  the 
15* 


Through  the  Rockies    153 

mountain  side  for  the  purpose  of  keeping 
the  snow  from  sliding  down  on  to  the 
railway  track. 

It  took  us  five  days  to  get  to  our  des- 
tination, and  five  days1  continuous  rail- 
way travelling  is  no  joke.  The, steady, 
swift  rumble  of  the  train,  going  hour 
after  hour,  day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  got  upon  the  nerves.  I  longed 
for  the  rolling  of  a  sailing  vessel,  or  even 
for  the  awkward  pitching  of  a  steamer  in 
heavy  weather.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
smooth,  grinding  whirr  of  the  wheels 
beneath  us  would  go  on  for  ever.  Even 
when  the  train  stopped  at  a  station  one 
could  still  feel  this  whirr.  The  brain 
had  adopted  the  sensation  permanently. 

The  country  we  passed  through  was 
wild  and  fine,  and,  above  all,  gave  one 
an  impression  of  vastness.  A  country 
of  mountains  and  great  rivers  and  lakes. 

We  stopped  at  a  little  town  on  the  edge 
of  Lake  Superior.  Here  we  got  out  of 
the  train.  I,  with  some  others,  climbed 
down  the  rocks  to  take  a  drink  from  the 
lake.  The  water  was  the  clearest  water 


154          A  Man  Adrift 

I  had  ever  seen,  and,  although  the  sun 
shone  out  strongly,  it  was  cold  and 
fresh.  Indeed,  there  was  something 
death-like  in  its  coldness.  It  stretched 
out  wide  and  far  like  a  great  sea.  Off 
out  in  it  I  could  see  the  glint  of  deep, 
black  blue,  which  tells  of  immense 
depth.  It  was  a  lake  I  would  scarcely 
have  liked  to  sail  upon.  A  beautiful, 
forbidding  vast  lake,  with  chill,  cold, 
deep  waters.  I  had  heard  it  said  that 
whenever  a  sailor  fell  overboard  from  a 
steamer  in  Lake  Superior  no  effort  was 
made  to  stop  and  rescue  him,  for  the  life 
was  chilled  out  of  the  man  long  before  a 
boat  could  be  lowered.  The  waters  were 
so  cold. 

And  then  the  train  went  on  and  on 
till  it  entered  the  stretching,  immense, 
prairie. 

I  had  never  seen  the  prairie  before. 
It  seemed  to  me  almost  more  wide  and 
lone  than  the  ocean  itself.  Looking  out 
upon  it  brought  upon  one  a  sense  of 
awe  and  stillness.  A  limitless  grass- 
covered  plain,  stretching  from  horizon 


Through  the  Rockies    155 

to  horizon,  and  seeming  to  begin  and 
end  in  eternity. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  foot-hills  of  the 
Rockies.  We  were  nearing  Fort  Donald. 
And  the  foot-hills  changed  to  great, 
rugged  mountains. 

Here  we  were  at  Fort  Donald  at  last, 
and  around  us,  rising  higher  and  higher, 
were  the  Rockies ! 

There  was  nothing  for  us  to  do  now 
but  to  go  to  work  building  the  snow- 
sheds.  If  a  man  wouldn't  work  he 
wouldn't  get  anything  to  eat,  and  therein 
lay  the  true  inwardness  of  the  company's 
reason  for  carrying  men  three  thousand 
miles  for  a  dollar.  When  they  were  in 
Fort  Donald  the  men  had  to  work  at  the 
snow  sheds  whether  they  liked  or  not. 

We  were  a  mixed-up  crowd,  hailing 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  And  we  got 
on  well  together,  mainly  because  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  us  to  get  whisky. 
Whisky  is  a  bad  thing.  It  makes  a  man 
forget  that  the  other  fellow  is  a  man  too. 
I've  seen  tough  things  done  through 
drinking  whisky. 


1 56          A  Man  Adrift 

A  dollar  and  a  half  a  day  was  our  pay, 
and  pay-day  came  once  a  month.  They 
charged  us  three  dollars  and  a  half  a 
week  for  board.  The  board  was  good — 
plenty  of  meat  and  bread  and  coffee  and 
vegetables.  The  meals  were  served  up 
in  a  sort  of  here-grab-this- when- 1 -throw 
it-at-you  way,  but  mountain  air  and  hard 
work  make  a  man  able  to  forego  silver 
and  fine  napery. 

The  work  was  rough,  and  we  were  kept 
at  it  ten  hours  a  day.  Some  of  us  blasted 
out  rock  from  the  mountain  side,  while 
others  were  felling  and  sawing  up  big 
trees.  Others  again  were  now  and  then 
sent  out  to  hunt  for  fresh  meat.  The 
mountains  were  full  of  big  game. 

We  were  called  up  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  by  seven  we  had  had  break- 
fast and  were  just  commencing  work. 
At  twelve  we  stopped  an  hour  for  dinner, 
and  after  that  we  kept  on  till  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  By  this  time  supper 
was  ready,  and  after  supper  we  would 
go  over  to  the  big  wooden  shanty,  where 
we  slept.  There  we  smoked  and  told 


Through  the  Rockies    157 

all  sorts  of  yarns  till  it  was  time  to 
turn  in. 

Every  man  of  us  had  a  bunk  to  himself. 
This  was  furnished  with  a  mattress,  a 
hard  pillow,  and  two  blankets. 

The  crowd  was  interesting.  The  men 
had  not  only  come  from  every  place,  but 
they  had  come  from  every  class.  Here 
was  the  man  who  had  about  him  that 
curious  air  of  self  poise,  the  heritage  of 
high  birth  and  social  advantage.  And 
here  was  the  poor,  uncouth  clod,  born  with 
the  marks  of  labour  slavery  upon  him. 
And  here  was  the  man  who  had  left  his 
country  for  his  country's  good.  Taken  as 
a  whole,  however,  they  impressed  me  as  a 
crowd  of  good,  hard  men — a  crowd  that  a 
strong  man  might  lead  to  the  freeing  of  a 
country,  or  to  the  crushing  of  a  country. 

I  remember  one  fellow — he  was  an 
Englishman — who  had  a  beautiful  tenor 
voice.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time 
I  heard  him  sing.  It  was  in  the  evening, 
when  we  were  near  to  the  end  of  our  day's 
work.  He  and  I  had  been  working  side 
by  side  in  the  pickaxe  gang.  Suddenly 


158          A  Man  Adrift 

he  began  to  sing,  and  I  was  thrilled  as  I 
had  never  been  thrilled  before,  or,  indeed, 
since,  though  I  have  heard  the  finest 
Italian  singers  in  the  world.  All  of  us 
stopped  working  at  once.  He  was  sing- 
ing an  old  English  song — a  beautiful  song, 
that  will  live  while  the  white  race  lives. 
I  can't  describe  the  effect  it  had  upon  us 
out  there — out  there  in  the  clear  air  of  the 
wild,  lone  mountains. 

I  asked  the  Englishman  a  lot  of  ques- 
tions after  that,  but  he  would  tell  me 
nothing.  I  have  thought  of  him  many 
times  since.  Who  was  he?  What  was 
he?  and  why  was  he  there?  Poor  boy! 
Years  have  gone  by  since  I  heard  his 
song  in  the  Rockies. 

I  threw  up  work  after  two  months'  time, 
and  found  myself  thirty  dollars  ahead.  I 
wanted  to  get  to  the  Pacific  Coast.  I  had 
it  in  my  mind  to  ship  somewhere  from 
Vancouver.  But  it  was  five  hundred  miles 
away,  nearly  a  month's  tramp. 

For  thirty  dollars  I  could  buy  food  at  the 
Company's  stores  along  the  way.  Thus 
the  main  difficulty  of  the  journey  was  re- 


Through  the  Rockies    159 

moved.  I  was  all  right  as  long  as  I 
had  money — that  is,  as  far  as  getting 
away  from  the  work  was  concerned. 

One  had  to  sleep  out  every  night,  to  be 
sure,  and  to  take  chances  on  being  done 
up  either  by  the  Indians  or  wild  animals. 
But  a  hardy  man  will  take  big  chances 
when  he  wants  to  be  on  the  move.  And, 
besides,  I  couldn't  miss  the  Pacific  Coast 
by  any  manner  of  means,  for  the  Com- 
pany's rails  were  laid  two  hundred  miles  of 
the  way,  and  the  right  of  way,  where  the 
rails  had  yet  to  be  laid,  would  guide  me 
right  up  the  coast. 

So  I  started  one  morning.  I  remember 
the  morning  well.  It  was  clear  and  bright 
and  beautiful — in  the  middle  of  June.  I 
was  so  glad  to  get  away  from  the 
monotonous  labour,  even  though  I  was 
going  to  I  knew  not  what.  Hard  labour 
is  all  very  well  to  talk  about,  or  to  preach 
about,  but  doing  it  is  quite  a  different 
thing. 

My  outfit  consisted  of  a  pair  of  blankets, 
which  were  strapped  across  my  back,  a 
pannikin,  some  biscuits  and  bacon,  and 


160          A  Man  Adrift 

some  coffee  and  sugar.  And  I  was  well 
heeled  as  far  as  weapons  were  concerned. 
I  carried  a  forty-four  calibred  revolver  and 
a  broad  sheath  knife,  and  I  had  fifty  cart- 
ridges in  my  ammunition  belt.  To  my 
mind  a  revolver  and  a  knife  are  the 
handiest  weapons  going — that  is,  if  you've 
got  to  look  out  for  a  surprise,  or  a  brush 
at  close  quarters.  I  wouldn't  give  the 
tenth  part  of  a  rap  for  a  rifle.  It  is 
awkward  to  handle  in  a  quick  rush,  and 
you  are  apt  to  get  done  up  before  you 
know  where  you  are.  No,  give  me  a 
revolver  or,  better  still,  a  good  knife. 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  say  something 
about  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the 
Rockies,  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  at  that 
time  the  scenery  impressed  me  but  little. 
It  was  great  and  wild  and  finely  coloured. 
But  I  had  had  enough  mountain  scenery 
to  last  me  a  lifetime.  I  had  been  work- 
ing hard  in  the  middle  of  it  for  two 
months.  The  poetry  had  been  knocked 
out  of  me. 

Fine  scenery  doesn't  impress  a  man 
much  when  he's  hungry,  or  when  he's 


Through  the  Rockies    161 

alone  and  tired  and  wondering  if  he'll 
get  out  of  it  alive.  The  lonesomeness  of 
it  all  is  what  strikes  him  in  a  time  like 
this.  It  is  so  terrible.  It  is  hard  to  feel 
that  you  are  absolutely  and  utterly  alone 
—that  you  might  fall  down  and  die,  and 
there  would  be  no  one  round  to  hold  a 
cup  of  water  to  your  lips. 

These  frightful,  lonely  mountains  made 
me  think.  I  was  face  to  face  with  things 
— face  to  face  with  myself.  I  used  to 
listen  to  the  tramp,  tramp  of  my  feet, 
and  wonder  where  I  was  going,  and  why  I 
was  going.  I  knew  I  was  going  to  the 
Pacific  Coast — but  what  then?  I  had 
been  going  ever  since  I  was  a  lad.  And 
I  was  so  tired  of  it  all.  What  had  I 
done  that  I  should  be  a  pariah  and  a 
labourer  and  a  vagrant  ?  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  main  reason  was  because  I  be- 
longed to  the  low,  labouring  class — the 
slave  class.  I  had  been  thrown  out  into 
the  world  without  education  or  any  other 
advantage,  and  I  had  become  a  labourer 
on  land  and  sea — a  human  buffet  for 

the  world's  blows. 

L 


1 62          A  Man  Adrift 

These  and  other  thoughts  used  to  come 
to  me  in  the  long,  strange  days — the  days 
I  was  tramping  through  the  mountains. 
And  I  felt  so  lonely,  too.  I  began  to 
despair.  And  one  day  I  grew  sick  of 
the  whole  business,  and  I  unslung  my 
revolver  and  determined  to  take  a  rest 
for  good  and  all.  I  had  seen  men  shot 
through  the  brain,  and  I  knew  exactly 
what  the  effect  was  like.  One  jumped 
violently,  and  then  one  sank  down  like  a 
rag,  and  over  the  face  came  a  peaceful 
look.  A  distorted  face  is  more  apt  to 
come  from  a  jagged  knife  wound  that 
lets  the  life  out  slowly. 

I  mapped  it  out,  all  out,  in  my  mind, 
and  I  put  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver 
under  my  right  ear  so  as  to  get  the  base 
of  the  brain. 

But  just  as  I  put  my  finger  on  the 
trigger  I  began  to  think  in  a  way  I  had 
never  thought  before.  My  whole  life, 
and  everything  I  had  done  in  it,  sud- 
denly came  up  before  my  mind.  Every- 
thing was  so  clear  and  vivid.  I  seemed 
to  see  things  from  many  sides  at  once. 


Through  the  Rockies    163 

This  is  the  way  that  men  think  when 
they  are  drowning,  I  thought.  And  I 
brought  down  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver. 
But  I  intended  to  kill  myself  neverthe- 
less. However,  I'd  try  and  analyse  my 
feelings  first.  And  I  sat  down  on  a  log 
and  wondered.  Why  shouldn't  I  kill  my- 
self? What  was  there  before  me  but 
misery  and  hard  knocks?  People  said 
that  everyone  in  the  world  got  at  some 
time  or  another  a  square  chance.  Honestly, 
I  felt  that  I  had  never  had  such  a  chance. 
I  had  been  born  in  the  mire,  and  I  had 
stayed  in  the  mire. 

No,  it  had  not  been  my  own  fault,  I 
felt.  I  had  been  moulded  and  crushed 
to  a  certain  shape  by  circumstances.  I 
was  no  more  to  blame  for  being  what  I 
was  than  the  Indian  was  to  blame  for  being 
what  he  was,  despite  what  any  well-fed 
liar  from  the  pulpit  had  to  say  about  it. 

And  I  stood  up  again  and  cursed  the 
earth  and  everything  in  it.  And  I  felt 
that  the  time  would  come  when  men  of 
my  breed — men  from  the  gutter — would 
get  even  with  it. 


164          A  Man  Adrift 

I  put  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver  against 
my  head  for  the  second  time,  and  then — 
well,  something  came  over  me.  I  couldn't 
tell  what  it  was — I  couldn't  tell  even  to 
this  day.  It  wasn't  fear;  it  wasn't  re- 
morse. I  just  wanted  to  live — just  wanted 
to  live  for  no  particular  reason. 

I  suppose  it  was  the  lonesomeness  of 
the  whole  thing  that  got  me  into  this 
frame  of  mind.  I  saw  faces,  to  be  sure, 
at  the  company's  stations,  but  it  was  only 
for  a  few  moments — just  long  enough  for 
me  to  buy  what  food  I  wanted. 

Somehow,  I  think  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  if  I  had  seen  no  one  at 
all  through  the  whole  tramp.  Then  I 
might  have  got  more  used  to  being  utterly 
alone. 

I  was  never  bothered  at  all  by  the 
Indians,  though  I  saw  them,  too,  occa- 
sionally ;  but  they  either  paid  no  attention 
to  me  or  they  greeted  me  in  a  friendly 
way.  I  have  been  bothered  by  Indians 
at  other  times,  though.  As  a  rule  Indians 
are  all  right  if  we  white  men  will  let  them 
alone.  They  are  not  blessed  with  civilisa- 


Through  the  Rockies    165 

tion — but  they  never  allow  any  of  their 
tribe  to  starve  as  long  as  they  have  food 
to  give  them.  They  are  much  more 
Christian  in  this  respect  than  we  are. 
And  still  we  send  missionaries  out  to 
them. 

One  day,  about  noon-time,  1  heard  a 
sound  that  froze  me  to  the  marrow  with 
fear.  It  was  a  rattlesnake  that  had  come 
out  on  to  the  middle  of  the  track  to  sun 
itself.  The  bright  steel  of  the  rails  had 
attracted  it  Sbrrr!  Sbrrr!  Its  rattle 
was  going  at  a  furious  rate.  The  sound 
of  my  footsteps  had  disturbed  it 

I  had  never  seen  a  rattlesnake  before, 
and  after  I  had  got  over  my  first  impulse 
of  fear  I  began  to  study  it  I  knew  it 
was  a  rattler  because  it  tallied  with  the 
descriptions  I  had  heard  of  it.  Besides, 
it  is  well  known  that  they  are  the  only 
snakes  in  the  North-west  that  will  dispute 
the  path  with  you.  The  other  snakes 
glide  away  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep. 

Its  head  was  raised  about  four  inches 
from  the  ground,  and  was  swaying  to  and 
fro.  Its  mouth  was  wide  open,  and  out 


1 66          A  Man  Adrift 

of  it  the  fangs  were  shooting.  It  wasn't 
coiled  up,  as  you  see  snakes  coiled  up  in 
pictures.  Its  colour  was  a  sort  of  dirty 
dark  grey.  It  must  have  been  about  five 
feet  long. 

The  look  in  its  eyes  was  enough  to 
make  a  man  turn  sick  and  die. 

I  fired  a  shot  at  it,  and  though  I  broke 
the  ground  within  an  inch  of  it  it  never 
moved  a  peg  out  of  the  way.  It  still  kept 
swaying  its  head  and  rattling.  This 
touched  me  a  little.  The  snake  was  game 
— and  I  like  to  come  across  anything 
that's  game.  You  are  not  often  allowed 
the  privilege. 

I  was  going  to  fire  at  it  a  second  time, 
but  I  thought  I'd  let  it  alone.  After  all 
it  was  in  its  own  country,  and  would 
harm  no  one  if  not  bothered.  I  was  an 
intruder  there  anyway.  So  I  got  off  the 
track  and  walked  half  round  it.  I  had 
to  keep  a  close  eye  on  it,  however,  for 
it  wheeled  slowly  round  with  me,  watch- 
ing me. 

When  night  came  on,  my  plan  was  to 
collect  a  big  pile  of  dried  branches  and 


Through  the  Rockies    167 

make  a  fire.  Then  I'd  cook  myself  some 
grub,  and  after  I  had  eaten  I'd  have  a 
smoke.  After  my  smoke  I  would  spread 
a  blanket  on  the  ground,  and  lay  my  knife 
and  revolver  near  where  my  head  was 
going  to  rest,  so  that  I  could  grab  them 
at  once  if  need  be.  I  covered  myself  up 
with  the  other  blankets  just  as  I  lay 
down,  and  then  I  would  drop  off 
to  sleep  before  you  could  say  Jack 
Robinson. 

I  didn't  dream  at  all.  I  was 
too  tired  with  the  tramping  and  the 
monotony. 

Sleeping  out  in  the  open  air  is  the  finest 
thing  a  man  can  do.  You  become  as 
strong  and  as  hard  as  an  animal.  People 
live  too  much  in  houses. 

Just  as  dawn  was  breaking,  I  would 
waken  up.  Then  I  would  cook  my 
breakfast  over  the  remains  of  the  fire, 
eat,  pack  my  blankets  and  get  on  the 
move. 

Afcer  many  days  tramping  I  came  to 
a  little  settlement  on  the  north  fork  of 
the  Fraser  River.  It  was  called  Yale. 


1 68         A  Man  Adrift 

Though  I  didn't  go  much  on  scenery  just 
then,  I  must  say  the  look  of  the  mountains 
here  impressed  me.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  I  were  in  the  biggest  church  one  could 
think  of — a  church  without  a  roof.  The 
mountains  were  the  biggest  I  had  ever 
seen,  and  they  stood  up  almost  as  straight 
as  pillars.  The  tops  of  them  were  covered 
with  snow,  and  half  way  down  one  of 
them  was  a  glacier  that  had  taken  a 
thousand  years  to  form. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  river  tore  along 
horribly.  It  was  one  of  the  ugliest  and 
wickedest-looking  pieces  of  water  I  had 
ever  seen.  If  you  fell  in  here  you  had 
no  more  chance  of  swimming  than  you 
would  have  in  the  Maelstrom.  You  were 
lost.  It  was  more  awful -looking  than 
the  mid -ocean  in  a  hurricane,  because 
beneath  it  all  one  could  feel  there  was 
treachery. 

Here  I  had  a  go  at  salmon  fishing.  I 
saw  a  Si  wash  Indian  on  the  top  of  a  rock 
hauling  up  salmon  out  of  the  rapids. 
His  way  of  doing  it  was  simple.  He  just 
thrust  an  immense  landing  net  down 


Through  the  Rockies    169 

into  the  water,  and  a  salmon  would  run 
into  it.  The  water  was  packed  with  the 
fish.  They  were  working  their  way  up 
stream. 

Three  guy-ropes  were  fastened  to  the 
frame  of  the  net  to  keep  it  steady  in  the 
rushing  water.  The  ropes  were  hitched 
to  a  tree  that  stood  off  over  on  the 
bank. 

Big  salmon  they  were,  too — some  of 
them  thirty-five  and  forty  pounders.  When 
one  of  them  got  into  the  net  the  Indian 
knew  about  it.  It  looked  as  if  the  guy- 
ropes  were  going  to  snap. 

When  the  Indian  hauled  up  the  strug- 
gling, fighting  salmon  on  to  the  top  of 
the  rock  he  brained  it  by  giving  it 
a  light  tap  on  the  head  with  a  small 
club. 

I  asked  the  Indian  to  let  me  have  a 
try  at  it,  and  he  did.  The  first  salmon 
I  hauled  up  nearly  cost  me  my  life,  for 
it  almost  knocked  me  into  the  rapids, 
and  once  in  the  rapids  I  would  have 
been  smashed  into  smithereens  on  the 
rocks. 


170          A  Man  Adrift 

This  salmon  was  a  big  fellow,  and  I 
was  foolish  enough  to  pick  him  up  in 
my  arms,  just  to  see  how  strong  an  up- 
stream salmon  really  was.  I  want  no 
more  of  it.  I  thought  I  was  grappling 
with  a  mountain  lion.  A  man  was 
nothing  to  it.  I  didn't  know  where  I 
was.  I  only  knew  that  I  was  getting  a 
hard  flinging  about  somewhere  or  another. 
I  held  on  though^  till  the  Indian  got  in 
one  of  his  light  taps  on  the  head  of  the 
salmon.  This  soothed  him. 

I  hauled  up  about  twenty  fish,  and  I 
must  say  it  was  great  sport,  and  dangerous 
sport,  too,  for  if  you  got  knocked  off  the 
rocks  it  was  all  up  with  you. 

At  this  part  of  my  journey  I  had  got  a 
long  way  past  the  point  where  the  com- 
pany's rails  were  laid.  I  was  in  the  right 
of  way,  or  cutting,  where  the  line  had  yet 
to  come.  My  journey  was  nearly  over. 
I  had  crossed  the  summit  of  the  big 
mountain  chain.  From  then  on  it  was 
a  gradual  slope  to  the  coast.  The  moun- 
tains got  smaller.  The  lonesome  feeling 
left  me. 


Through  the  Rockies    171 

And  one  morning  as  I  rounded  the  turn 
of  a  gorge  I  saw  off  in  the  distance  a 
great  shining  stretch  of  water.  It  was 
the  Pacific. 


XIII.— MAXWELL 


KAMLOOPS  was  a  rough  town.  The  men 
that  drift  here  and  there  and  everywhere 
had  made  it  for  the  time  their  abiding 
place — for  in  the  mountains  beyond  it  was 
to  be  found  gold.  Few  found  it,  though  ; 
and  as  I  was  not  one  of  that  few,  I  had 
to  go  to  work  on  the  railroad  which  was 
being  built  away  out  through  the  mountains. 
I  was  in  the  gang  that  laid  the  steel. 

The  work  was  lively.  Four  of  us  had 
to  pick  up  and  carry  thirty-foot  steel  rails 
in  a  hot  sun.  Three  dollars  and  a  half  a 
day  was  the  rate  at  which  we  were  paid. 
We  got  our  wages  on  the  fifteenth  of 
every  month,  and  when  the  money  came 
we  took  a  day  or  so  off  to  spend  it.  We 
painted  Kamloops  red  while  it  lasted, 
and  hard  things  used  to  happen.  I  re- 
172 


Maxwell  173 

member  when  the  Marshal  and  his 
deputies  got  fresh,  and  arrested  Bruce 
for  just  nothing  at  all.  He  was  a  nice 
fellow — a  University  man — but  I  suppose 
he  had  cut  up  rough  at  home  in  England, 
and  had  had  to  get  out.  I  felt  sorry  to 
have  to  see  him  go  along  with  the  Marshal 
and  his  men,  but  they  had  got  the  drop 
on  us,  and  in  that  country  it  was  shoot  if 
you  moved.  The  crowd  had  been  a  trifle 
noisy  in  Kelly's  saloon — that  was  all. 
But  that  night  six  or  seven  of  us  heeled 
ourselves,  and  made  for  the  calaboose. 
With  an  axe  I  smashed  in  the  door,  and 
we  got  Bruce  out.  The  Marshal  and  his 
gang  interfered,  to  be  sure.  But  that's 
neither  here  nor  there. 

We  lived  in  batches  of  six  or  seven  in 
small  rough  log-houses,  which  we  called 
"  shacks,"  and  which  we  built  ourselves. 
One  of  us  would  stay  at  home  and  cook 
the  grub  while  the  rest  were  working  on 
the  track.  At  this  we  took  turn  about. 

One  night,  as  we  were  smoking  our 
pipes  round  the  fire,  two  men  came  up  to 
the  door  of  our  shack.  They  were  in 


174          A  Man  Adrift 

soldier's  uniform,  and  they  frankly  told  us 
that  they  had  deserted  from  Indian  Creek, 
a  post  two  hundred  miles  away.  Their 
object,  they  s'aid,  was  to  get  to  the  United 
States,  where  they  would  be  safe.  We 
sympathised  with  them,  and  did  our  level 
best  to  make  them  comfortable.  One  gave 
his  name  as  Cox,  the  other  as  Maxwell. 

They  said  they  belonged  to  Toronto, 
Canada,  where  they  had  enlisted.  They 
had  deserted  from  the  post  because  the 
discipline  was  hard.  Maxwell  could  not 
have  been  more  than  twenty  years  old. 
He  was  tall,  well  formed,  and  had  a  fine, 
frank  face.  Altogether,  he  was  a  young 
fellow  whose  appearance  one  would  be  apt 
to  like.  He  was  home-sick,  spoke  of  his 
mother  and  his  wish  to  see  her,  but  that  it 
would  be  impossible  now  that  he  was  a 
deserter.  He  would  have  to  try  his  luck 
in  the  States.  I  felt  sorry  for  him. 

Cox  might  have  been  twenty-five  years 
old.  He  was  of  middle  height  and  of  a 
wiry  build.  He  had  keen  black  eyes,  and 
a  foxy  expression  of  face. 

Their  next  point  was  Yale,  a  place  thirty 


Maxwell  175 

miles  away,  They  hoped  to  reach  it  by 
the  following  night. 

After  smoking  and  chatting  awhile,  all 
hands,  including  the  deserters,  turned  in. 
We  were  tired. 

Morning  came,  and  with  it  a  complica- 
tion. Jimmy  Murphy  strongly  objected 
to  our  guests  leaving.  And  as  he  had 
twenty  dollars  planted  away  since  last 
month's  pay-day,  he  proposed  a  holiday. 
Rails  would  be  laid  after  we  were  dead, 
he  said. 

Our  guests,  not  being  able  to  withstand 
his  logic,  stayed,  and  we  had  a  roaring 
time.  On  in  the  afternoon  we  got  a  boat, 
and  rowed  out  into  Kamloops  Lake.  Full 
of  whisky  and  the  devil,  I  jumped  on  the 
gunwale  of  the  boat,  and  overturned  it. 
Luckily,  all  hands  could  swim.  As  for 
myself,  filled  with  a  crazy  notion,  I  faced 
for  the  centre  of  the  lake,  which  at  this 
point  was  a  good  deal  over  a  mile  wide. 
I  felt  the  sudden  sense  of  great  power 
that  often  comes  to  the  drunken.  I  would 
have  hurled  myself  into  a  Niagara,  or  into 
a  hell. 


176         A  Man  Adrift 

I  was  swimming  to  certain  death,  for 
close  to  the  lake's  centre  was  a  powerful 
current,  which  would  have  carried  me 
down  into  the  rapids,  where  I  would 
have  been  torn  to  pieces  on  sharp, 
jutting  rocks.  But  I  had  not  gone  very 
far  before  I  was  clutched  by  the  collar, 
and  dragged  round.  It  was  Maxwell, 
who  had  swum  after  me.  He  saw  the 
danger  my  mad  spell  was  bringing  me  to. 
He  brought  me  to  reason,  and  I  turned, 
and  swam  back  with  him.  To  him  I  owe 
my  life. 

The  next  day  came,  and  we  went  back 
to  work.  The  soldiers  left  us  to  go  on 
to  Yale. 


Two  months  after  this  I  was  singing  in 
the  Globe  Hotel  in  Vancouver.  The 
hotel  in  the  evening  was  turned  into  a 
concert  hall,  and  I  was  engaged  as  a 
baritone.  I  had  a  fair  voice,  and  I  knew 
something  of  music.  I  sang  on  the  stage 


Maxwell  177 

in  the  same  rough  sailor  rig  I  had  worn 
when  working  on  the  railroad.  Singing 
was  easier  than  laying  rails. 

I  got  on  well  with  the  audience.  They 
were  indeed  a  mixed -up,  cosmopolitan 
crowd  —  hailing  from  everywhere.  But 
the  tie  of  the  vagabond  bound  them  all 
together.  And  they  were  good  fellows, 
who  would  share  up  with  the  stranger. 

After  singing  I  got  big  applause.  I 
sang  again.  Then  I  went  in  amongst 
the  audience  and  sat  down  with  some 
fellows  I  knew  to  take  a  drink.  I  was 
hardly  seated  before  I  was  touched  on 
the  shoulder.  I  turned  round.  It  was 
Cox.  He  had  got  rid  of  his  uniform. 

"By  God,  Reddy!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You've  got  a  great  voice.'* 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  I  said.  "Sit 
down  and  have  a  drink.  Where's  your 
pardner,  Maxwell?" 

His  face  changed  colour. 

"  Maxwell,"  he  repeated  after  me,  as  he 
looked  at  me  curiously.  "  Haven't  you 
heard  ? " 

"Heard  what?" 

M 


178          A  Man  Adrift 

"  Why — he's  condemned  to  be  hung.  " 

"  Hung— hung!"  I  said,  slowly.  "  What 
for  ?  "  and  I  looked  straight  at  him. 

"Why — he  and  two  other  fellows  were 
tried  and  condemned  to  death  in  New 
Westminster  for  knocking  a  man  cold 
and  taking  away  his  money  in  Yale." 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  interrupted  one  of  the  men 
sitting  at  the  table.  "You  mean  the 
young,  good-looking  fellow  who  deserted 
from  Indian  Creek.  He's  going  to  be 
hung  with  the  other  two — I  can't  re- 
member their  names — next  week.  Why 
Reddy" — to  me — "you  must  have  been 
asleep  not  to  have  heard  about  it." 

"Yes,"  put  in  another,  "and  I  think 
the  trial  was  a  damned  fraud,  anyway. 
The  old  circumstantial  evidence  gag,  you 
know.  The  men  were  in  the  neighbour- 
hood at  the  time  of  the  murder,  and  a 
numbskull  of  a  doctor  said  that  their 
clothes  were  spattered  with  human  blood. 
I  guess  they're  done  for,  anyway.  I'll  bet 
my  head  to  a  cent,  though,  that  the 
Indians  killed  the  man." 

I  sat  there,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 


Maxwell  179 

I  was  bewildered.  My  head  was  turning. 
Why  I  was  so  affected  was  rather  a 
mystery  to  me,  for  often  in  my  various 
knockings  round  in  tough,  out-of-the-way 
places  I  had  seen  men  fight  and  kill  each 
other  for  nothing  at  all.  I  had  become 
hardened  to  scenes  of  violence.  But  for 
this  young  fellow  who  had  got  into  trouble 
I  felt  a  liking  from  the  first  I  saw  of  him. 
I  had  often  thought  of  him.  There  was 
something  fine  in  his  face.  Besides,  he 
had  saved  my  life. 

I  said  to  Cox  : 

"The  boy  has  come  across  a  tough 
streak  of  luck.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  about  two  or  three  days  after  we 
were  with  you  in  the  shack,"  he  answered. 
"  We  got  to  Yale  on  the  night  of  the  day 
we  started  from  you  fellows.  We  had 
hard  work  to  make  it,  though.  Thirty 
miles  isn't  easy.  The  next  day  after  we 
got  there  Maxwell  got  on  a  tear,  and  the 
day  after  that,  as  he  wouldn't  leave  Yale,  I 
left  him  there.  You  know  I  was  scared. 
I  didn't  know  what  minute  the  troopers 
from  Indian  Creek  would  be  on  our  necks. 


180          A  Man  Adrift 

The  next  time  I  saw  him  was  when  they 
were  trying  him  for  murder  in  New 
Westminster." 

"  It's  a  wonder  they  didn't  pull  you,  too," 
remarked  someone. 

"Well,  I  guess  they  would  have,"  said 
Cox,  "only  that  I  wasn't  round  Yale  when 
the  thing  happened.  But,  say,  boys,  I'm 
going.  So  long,  Reddy.  See  you  again, 


some  time." 


He  rose  and  walked  to  the  door.  I 
followed  him,  and,  laying  my  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  said  : 

"Say,  Cox,  can't  you  tell  me  anything 
more  about  Maxwell  ?  What  you've  told 
me  about  him  has  upset  me — knocked  me 
out.  Where  are  you  going  ?  And  when 
shall  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  get  out  of  here  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  a  schooner 
to  Tacoma.  You  see,  I've  got  to  get  into 
the  States,  for  I'm  liable  to  be  pulled  here 
any  minute  for  desertion.  I'm  sorry  I 
mentioned  Indian  Creek  over  at  table 
yonder.  You  can't  tell  who's  round. 
Besides,  to  tell  you  the  God's  truth,  I'm 


Maxwell  1 8 1 

dead  skeary  about  this  business  of  Max- 
well's. I  wasn't  round  at  the  time,  I 
know,  but  then  nobody  knows  what's 
going  to  happen." 

"Well,  then/'  said  I,  "if  that's  the  case, 
you'd  better  get  right  out.  It's  none  of 
my  business  where  you  were.  But  I'm 
sorry  about  Maxwell.  Do  you  think  he 
was  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't ;  I'm  certain  he  wasn't.  He's 
a  good  fellow,  and,  anyway,  the  killing  was 
too  mean  a  business  for  a  soldier  to  be 
mixed  up  in.  Why  the  man  was  found 
with  his  head  battered  in,  and  his  body  all 
smashed  up.  The  doctor  said  it  was  the 
work  of  a  club,  and  that  was  about  the 
only  true  thing  he  did  say." 

I  looked  at  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  anything  could  be  done  for 
Maxwell?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"When  was  the  murder  committed?" 

"  The  papers  say  on  June  the  loth, 
about  midday," 

"  I  think  I'll  try  and  see  Maxwell,"  I 
said. 


1 82          A  Man  Adrift 

"  Well,  you'll  find  him  in  the  peniten- 
tiary at  New  Westminster.  I  don't  think, 
though,  that  they'll  let  you  in  to  see  him. 
But,'so  long,  Reddy,  I've  got  to  go,'*  and 
he  disappeared. 

All  night  long  I  couldn't  sleep. 

I  kept  seeing  Maxwell's  face.  I  could 
see  its  softened  expression  as  he  talked  of 
his  home  away  off  in  Canada,  where  his 
mother  sorrowed  for  him.  Again  I  could 
see  its  determined  look  as  he  pulled  me 
around  in  my  mad  swim  in  Kamloops 
Lake.  The  boy  was  surely  no  coward, 
and  this  murder  was  low  and  cowardly. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — not  he! 
And  if  he  had — well,  I  couldn't  bear  to 
think  of  that. 

No,  it  must  have  been  the  work  of 
someone  else.  He  was  around  when 
they  were  going  to  make  an  arrest,  and 
so  he  had  got  into  the  scrape.  The  trouble 
was  this  ;  the  limbs  of  the  law  wanted  to 
show  how  clever  they  were  in  ferreting 
out  murder  on  the  frontier.  I  had  known 
policemen,  marshals,  and  others  like  them, 
to  put  up  a  job  on  an  innocent  man, 


Maxwell  183 

and  have  him  hung  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  showing  that  they  were  smart. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day  I  made 
full  inquiries.  To  my  surprise,  the  first 
thing  I  found  out  was  that  Cox  had  made 
a  mistake  as  to  the  date.  The  murder 
had  been  committed,  not  on  June  the 
loth,  but  on  June  the  nth. 

And  the  names  of  the  men  who  were 
convicted  along  with  Maxwell  were 
Derose  and  Connors.  The  only  evidence 
that  the  law  had  against  them  was  the 
fact  of  a  marshal  swearing  to  the  seeing 
of  them  in  Yale  on  the  day  of  the  murder. 
Added  to  this  was  the  doctor's  unsup- 
ported assertion  that  their  clothes  were 
stained  with  human  blood. 

All  the  while  I  was  thinking  of  the 
whole  business,  the  date  which  Cox  had 
given  me  of  the  day  of  the  murder  kept 
continually  coming  to  me.  The  loth  of 
June,  the  loth  of  June,  seemed  to  ring 
in  my  ears.  It  was  the  wrong  date,  and 
why  it  should  come  to  me  so  persistently 
was  puzzling.  Something  curious  was 
working  in  my  mind.  I  stopped 


184          A  Man  Adrift 

thinking  of  the  murder,  and  tried  to 
analyse  it. 

Suddenly  a  light  broke  in  on  me. 
Where  was  I  on  the  loth  of  June  ?  This 
question  seemed  all  at  once  to  be  put 
to  me  by  something  outside  myself. 
"  Where  were  you  ?  Where  were  you  ? 
Where  were  you?"  it  said. 

As  if  to  answer  it,  a  series  of  mind- 
pictures  flashed  before  me.  They  were 
intensely  vivid,  and  presented  the  happen- 
ings of  that  day  at  Kamloops  Lake. 

I  had  it!  I  saw  it  all !  On  the  loth  of 
June  Maxwell  was  with  us  at  the  shack. 
It  was  the  day  when  I  jumped  on  the 
gunwale  of  the  boat  and  overturned  it. 
On  the  midday  of  the  nth,  the  time  of 
the  murder,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
have  been  in  Yale.  He  and  Cox  must 
have  been  only  six  or  eight  miles  from 
Kamloops,  for,  as  I  now  remembered, 
they  had  not  left  us  till  nine  o'clock  that 
morning,  and  by  no  chance  could  they 
have  reached  Yale  before  late  that  night. 
The  Canadian  Pacific  right  of  way  was 
ugly  travelling,  and,  as  no  rails  had  at 


Maxwell  185 

that  time  been  laid  past  Kamloops,  they 
must  have  had  to  walk  every  step  of  the 
way. 

My  heart  gave  a  leap.  Here  was  a 
clear  case  of  alibi.  I  could  save  the  boy. 
Jimmy  Murphy  was  in  town,  and  he  could 
back  up  my  testimony.  So  I  determined 
to  go  and  see  the  Governor  of  the  peni- 
tentiary in  New  Westminster,  and  lay  the 
case  before  him. 

But  was  I  sure  of  all  this  ?  Yes !  I 
remembered  distinctly  that  four  days  after 
Cox  and  Maxwell  had  left  us  we  were  paid 
off,  and  our  pay-day  was  on  the  fifteenth 
of  every  month.  After  that  Murphy  and 
I  had  tramped  it  to  Vancouver. 

I  soon  found  Murphy,  and  I  told  him 
all  about  it,  and  of  my  intention  to  go 
and  see  the  Governor  of  the  penitentiary. 
Murphy  remembered  the  date  of  Maxwell's 
stay  with  us  as  exactly  as  I  did,  and  he 
said  that  he  would  help  me  all  he  could. 
By  this  time  some  wind  of  my  intention 
had  got  round  amongst  the  boys,  and 
there  was  quite  an  excitement. 

I  started  for  New  Westminster. 


1 86         A  Man  Adrift 

New  Westminster  was  just  twelve  miles 
from  Vancouver,  and  the  road  to  it  lay 
through  a  thick,  dark  forest.  In  three 
hours  I  was  there. 

After  a  lot  of  difficulty  I  was  granted 
an  interview  with  the  Governor.  He  had 
been  a  colonel  in  the  British  Army,  and 
was  a  man  with  cold  blue  eyes  and  a 
strong  face.  He  listened  to  what  I  had 
to  say,  and  after  some  thought,  granted 
me  permission  to  see  Maxwell. 

I  was  to  see  him  that  night  in  the 
presence  of  two  gaolers,  and  to  talk  to 
him  as  to  his  whereabouts  at  the  time 
of  the  murder.  If  he  supported  what  I 
had  said,  without  receiving  any  cue,  the 
Governor  would  see  about  taking  further 
steps. 

When  night  came  I  was  brought  to 
the  door  of  his  cell.  I  felt  nervous 
and  curious  as  the  door  opened.  I 
entered. 

There  was  Maxwell.  He  was  heavily 
manacled,  but  stood  up  in  a  bold,  erect 
way.  The  manacles,  which  he  grasped 
firmly  with  his  left  hand,  so  that  he  could 


Maxwell  187 

move  easily,  had  a  blue  glisten.  They 
looked  new. 

He  looked  better  —  handsomer  than 
when  I  had  seen  him  last.  But  his  eyes 
were  shining  strangely. 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing  to 
me. 

"  It's  a  friend  of  yours,  who  has  come  to 
see  if  he  can  do  you  any  good,  said  one 
of  the  gaolers. 

"  Maxwell,"  1  said,  stepping  forward, 
and  holding  out  my  hand. 

As  I  spoke  he  recognised  me. 

"  Oh,  it's  you — Reddy,"  taking  my  hand. 
"  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

I  said  nothing,  but  I  looked  into  his 
eyes. 

The  gaoler  then  hinted  to  him  in  a 
cautious  way  the  reason  of  my  visit,  and 
said  it  might  benefit  him  to  answer  my 
questions. 

*  Certainly/*  he  said.  "  I  can't  be  any 
worse  off  than  I  am.  What  do  you  want 
to  ask  me,  Reddy  ?  " 

I  looked  at  him  again.  "You  remember 
Kamloops?"  I  said. 


A  Man  Adrift 

"Yes!  I  swam  after  you  in  the  lake 
He   smiled   slightly.      "Where's  Murphy 
and  the  other  boys?" 

"Oh,  Murphy's  in  Vancouver,  and  I 
don't  know  where  the  rest  drifted  to,"  said 
I.  And  we  talked  on  in  this  strain  for 
a  little  while. 

"  Maxwell,  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you 
about  your  whereabouts  on  the  nth  of 
June,"  I  said. 

The  gaolers  looked  keenly  at  us  both. 
They  were  looking  to  see  that  I  didn't 
give  Maxwell  any  sign  as  to  the  way  he 
should  answer  my  question. 

Maxwell  suddenly  sat  down  on  his 
bed.  He  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  The  manacles  gave  a  clank. 
"  The  dates !  The  dates  ! "  he  muttered, 
in  an  unsteady  way,  "They  run  before 


me." 


He  looked  up  again.  His  face  was 
convulsing  with  mania.  I  understood 
now  the  meaning  of  the  look  that  I  had 
noticed  in  his  eyes  when  I  entered  the 
cell.  He  was  mad,  and  his  madness 
hinged  on  the  idea  of  this  date — the  date 


Maxwell  189 

that  had  occurred  to  me  so  suddenly  and 
strangely  when  I  was  thinking  of  him  the 
day  before  in  Vancouver.  My  question 
had  set  him  off.  He  rose  up  and  shouted 
out : — 

"  On  the  nth  of  June,  at  the  time  of 
the  murder,  I  was  in  Yale.  But  I  am 
innocent.  Who  are  you  who  asks  me 
questions  ?  Damn  you  all !  Get  out  of 
here!"  And  he  sprang  at  one  of  the 
gaolers  and  knocked  him  down. 

£> 

He  was  got  under,  after  a  hard  and 
dangerous  scuffle. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  the  Governor 
again,  and  asserted  that  Maxwell's  saying 
that  he  was  in  Yale  at  the  time  of  the 
murder  was  due  to  the  giving  way  of  his 
mind  through  the  strain  put  upon  him, 
and  that  I  and  others  could  prove  that 
his  being  there  was  an  impossibility. 

"  The  man  admits  that  he  was  there 
at  the  time,"  the  Governor  said,  coldly, 
"  and  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

This  was  all  the  satisfaction  I  could 
get.  I  went  back  to  Vancouver  and  told 
Murphy.  We  were  all  broke  up  over  it 


190          A   Man  Adrift 

knowing  as  we  did  that  he  must  be 
innocent. 

Afterwards  we  learned  that  Maxwell's 
sentence  was  commuted  to  penal  servitude 
for  life,  because  of  insanity.  i  left 
Vancouver  soon  after,  and  since  then  I 
have  drifted  about  and  seen  and  known 
many  strange  things. 

But  I  have  often  wondered  and  thought 
about  Maxwell. 


XIV.— SIMILAKAMEEN 


I  LEFT  Yokohama  one  April  on  the 
barque  Seraph.  She  was  1700  tons 
burthen,  and  was  bound  for  Vancouver 
with  a  cargo  of  tea.  I  was  one  of  the 
crew,  which,  all  told,  counted  ten  hands. 
We  had  quite  a  slow  and  uninteresting 
time  of  it,  as  she  was  a  typical  lime-juicer, 
and  I  need  hardly  say  that  we  were  elated 
when,  after  a  trip  of  seventy-five  days, 
we  rounded  Cape  Flattery  and  entered 
the  Straits  of  Juan  de  Fuca. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  explain  that  a  lime- 
juicer  is  a  deep-water  or  long-voyage  ship, 
where  you  get  nothing  but  your  pound  and 
your  pint,  and  where  you  get  lime-juice 
for  the  good  of  your  health.  The  lime- 
juice  is  alleged  to  be  a  preventative  against 
scurvy,  and  I  must  say  that  the  taste  of 
191 


192          A  Man  Adrift 

it  is  ugly  enough  to  prevent  anything. 
The  captains  and  mates  of  this  class  of 
vessel  are  invariably  crusted  cranks  who 
have  forgotten  all  about  everything 
but  sheets  and  ropes  and  sails  and  the 
tricks  of  wind  and  water  and  weather. 
The  salt  has  entered  their  souls. 

However,  we  were  in  the  Straits,  and  a 
pilot  boarded  us  and  brought  us  carefully 
up  the  Gulf  of  Georgia  and  into  the  har- 
bour of  Vancouver.  Here  we  were  turned 
loose  upon  the  unsuspecting  town. 

In  a  day  the  wealth  I  had  amassed  at 
lime-juicing  had  withered,  so  I  had  to 
turn  to  and  get  some  kind  of  a  job.  There 
was  a  great  deal  of  building  going  on  in 
the  town,  and  I  got  work  at  carrying  the 
hod. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  knack  in  carry- 
ing the  hod.  You  have  at  once  to  be  a 
powerful  man,  and  a  man  gifted  with  a 
nice  sense  of  balance.  Really  it  is  the 
most  artistic  form  of  labouring  work  I 
have  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  indulge 
in.  If  you  don't  step  just  so  upon  the 
ladder  or  scaffolding,  or  lean  forward  just 


Similakameen  193 

so,  you  and  the  hod  will  fall  overboard. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  against 
hod-carrying.  All  that  I  will  say  is  that 
it  is  work  of  an  extremely  interesting 
nature. 

It  was  while  I  was  carrying  the  hod 
that  I  heard  of  Similakameen.  Miners 
came  along  with  Arabian  Nights'  stories 
of  how  gold  could  be  picked  up  there  by 
the  handful.  And  the  thirst  for  wealth 
came  upon  me  so  strongly  that  carrying 
the  hod  began  to  lose  for  me  its  fascina- 
tion. The  delights  that  attended  the  slow 
climbing  of  a  steep  ladder  with  a  heavy 
load  upon  my  shoulder  began  to  pall.  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  go  off  and  make 
a  fortune  with  the  rest  of  them. 

But  a  difficulty  presented  itself.  I  had 
not  enough  money  to  buy  myself  an  outfit, 
for  the  time-check  which  the  boss  con- 
siderately presented  to  me  for  my  prowess 
at  carrying  the  hod  only  amounted  to  ten 
dollars,  and,  to  make  things  more  interest- 
ing still,  I  found  that  I  could  only  get 
seven  dollars  for  the  check  when  I  came 
to  cash  it  at  a  store. 

N 


194          A  Man  Adrift 

An  outfit,  at  the  most  meagre  reckoning, 
meant  the  possession  of  a  pair  of  blankets, 
a  pickaxe  and  shovel,  a  fine  wire  sieve,  a 
good  knife,  and  a  revolver  or  a  Winchester 
rifle.  Added  to  this,  there  was  the  getting 
of  bacon  and  flour  and  whisky,  and  the 
fare  to  Fort  Hope.  No,  seven  dollars 
wouldn't  even  gaze  upon  it. 

My  visions  of  quick,  easy  wealth  were 
becoming  beautifully  dim,  and  I  was 
fluctuating  on  the  ragged  edge  of  despair, 
when  who  should  come  along  but  my  ship- 
mate, Bob — one  of  the  lads  who  had  come 
over  with  me  from  Yokohama  on  the 
Seraph.  We  talked  matters  over,  and  I 
found  that  he,  too,  had  developed  an  in- 
tense thirst  for  the  wealth  to  be  gained 
in  Similakameen.  This  was  good,  but, 
what  was  much  better  and  still  more  to 
the  point,  was  the  fact  that  the  night  be- 
fore he  had  made  a  big  winning  in  a  saloon 
at  draw-poker.  He  was  able  to  get  an 
outfit  and  to  spare,  and  he  generously 
proposed  that  we  should  become  partners. 
He  would  get  me  my  outfit,  he  said. 
Thus  was  the  difficulty  surmounted. 


Similakameen  195 

Similakameen,  where  the  wealth  was 
patiently  waiting  for  us,  was  a  mining 
camp,  situated  right  in  the  heart  of  the 
Selkirk  Mountains.  It  was  four  hundred 
miles  away  from  Vancouver. 

Our  first  point  to  make  was  Fort  Hope. 
With  this  end  in  view  we  walked  over  to 
New  Westminster,  where  we  were  to  take 
a  steamer  up  the  Fraser  River. 

We  had  to  wait  a  few  hours  for  the 
steamer,  and  we  put  in  the  time  by  telling 
each  other  all  we  would  do  when  we  got 
back  with  our  load  of  gold  dust.  "  Nuggets 
as  well,"  Bob  would  reiterate  to  me.  "  Pure 
nuggets.  They're  up  there  as  big  as  your 
fist.  It  won't  be  all  dust  we'll  have  to 
carry."  Then  we  would  go  off  into  a  long 
discussion  as  to  which  was  the  easier  to 
carry,  nuggets  or  dust. 

At  last  we  were  aboard  the  steamer  and 
on  our  way  to  Fort  Hope.  We  had  found 
out  that  we  were  not  going  to  have  Simi- 
lakameen all  to  ourselves.  There  were 
others,  as  the  saying  goes.  The  steamer 
was  simply  crowded  with  men  of  all  kinds 
— rough  and  smooth  and  otherwise.  I 


196          A  Man  Adrift 

heard  a  great  deal  of  talk,  and  got  a  vast 
number  of  tips  about  gold  and  its  getting. 

Everybody  seemed  to  be  giving  every- 
body else  valuable  points.  I  heard  many 
and  wonderful  schemes  put  forward  for 
the  turning  of  streams  from  their  courses 
so  as  to  get  at  the  gold-laden  sand  which 
lay  over  the  bed  rock.  There  was  gold 
in  the  bed  of  every  stream  and  river  in 
the  world,  one  man  averred.  In  fact,  this 
man — who  was  a  little  wild  in  the  eyes — 
put  forward  a  scheme  for  the  turning  off 
of  the  Fraser  River — a  river  of  tremendous 
volume  and  quick  flow,  and  three  miles 
wide  in  places.  His  eyes  grew  a  little 
wilder  when  I  volunteered  the  opinion 
that  at  least  his  scheme  had  the  merit  of 
being  big. 

Fort  Hope  was  something  over  two 
hundred  miles  from  Vancouver,  and  here 
it  was  that  our  journey  began  in  earnest. 
We  got  off  the  steamer,  and  after  going 
three  or  four  miles  we  were  confronted 
with  a  tote-trail,  which  seemed  to  run 
sheer  up  over  the  tops  of  the  mountains. 
A  tote- trail  is  made  by  Indians  as  they 


Similakameen  197 

tote,  or  carry,  provisions  and  merchan- 
dise along  and  over  places  that  are  in- 
accessible for  pack-horses  and  mules. 

However,  the  whole  crowd  of  us  began 
to  string  up  the  trail.  We  were  only  one 
hundred  and  eighty  miles  from  Similaka- 
meen ;  but  this  hundred  and  eighty  miles 
wanted  a  lot  of  doing,  for,  besides  our- 
selves, we  had  our  blankets  and  weapons 
and  bacon  and  flour  to  carry — and  one 
or  two  other  things,  including  ammuni- 
tion and  whisky.  In  a  big,  broken-up 
mountain  -  country  whisky  is  invaluable. 
Indeed,  a  gold-hunter  would  as  soon  think 
of  forgetting  his  flour  bag  as  his  big 
leathern  whisky  flask. 

We  could  make  no  more  than  twelve 
miles  a  day  at  the  outside,  for  the  trail 
was  something  woeful.  Sometimes  I 
would  sit  down  and  wonder  where  I  was 
at.  Gold  was  all  very  well,  I  used  to 
think,  as  I  wiped  my  brow,  but  this  trail 
was  going  it  a  bit  too  stiff.  Even  the 
sanguine  Bob  had  to  admit  that  we  were 
earning  the  "  nuggets." 

When   night   was  coming  on  we   used 


198          A  Man  Adrift 

to  look  round  and  collect  wood  to  make  a 
fire.  Then  we  would  fry  some  bacon, 
and  make  flapjacks  with  flour  and  water. 
When  supper  was  over  we  would  light 
our  pipes,  and  smoke  and  talk.  Our  last 
preparation  for  the  night  was  to  put  a  rope 
in  the  form  of  a  circle  around  the  place 
where  we  were  going  to  sleep.  Our 
reason  for  doing  this  was  that  if  snakes 
crawled  towards  us  during  the  night  they 
would  stop  with  their  heads  at  the  rope — 
go  around  the  circle — and  then  go  away 
again.  Snakes  will  do  this.  I  don't 
know  the  reason  why.  It  may  be  that 
they  fear  if  they  pass  over  the  rope  they 
will  get  into  a  trap. 

When  we  got  the  rope  fixed,  we  would 
wrap  ourselves  up  in  our  blankets,  and 
lie  down,  turning  our  feet  Indian- fashion 
to  the  fire.  We  were  so  tired  that  we 
would  fall  asleep  the  instant  we  stretched 
ourselves  out.  At  the  break  of  dawn  we 
would  get  up,  make  our  breakfast,  load 
ourselves  up  with  our  blankets  and  things, 
and  go  on  our  way. 

After  the  first  day  or  so  along  the  trail 


Similakameen  199 

we  stopped  talking  about  what  we  would 
do  when  we  got  the  gold. 

Besides  being  hard,  the  trail  was  often 
most  dangerous.  It  was  trying  to  the 
nerves  to  have  to  crawl  slowly  with  our 
loads — on  a  narrow  ledge — along  the  face 
of  a  precipice  that  sheered  down  thousands 
of  feet.  And  usually  there  was  a  strong, 
high  wind  blowing.  Often  I  shuddered, 
and  wondered  what  would  happen  next. 

The  wind  would  almost  seem  to  claw 
at  us — as  if  it  wanted  to  drag  us  down  to 
an  awful  death. 

Miles  out  down  the  great  mountains  we 
could  always  see  the  glint  of  some  torrent 
— a  sharp,  sinister,  white  line.  Again  we 
would  see  in  the  far  distance  small  specks 
moving  along  the  trail.  They  were  men 
like  ourselves,  going  on  to  Similakameen 
for  gold.  They  were  before  us  and  behind 
us.  All  moving  slowly  on.  On  in  quest 
of  gold. 

We  were  in  the  wild,  hard  country  of 
the  Chilkats — the  Indians  who  always 
kill.  Many  of  us  would  leave  our  bones 
here.  A  few  of  us  would  come  back 


200          A  Man  Adrift 

laden  with  gold.  And  we  were  all  going 
slowly  on. 

It  surely  was  not  altogether  the  idea 
of  eventually  getting  gold  that  bound 
us  to  this  terrible  trail.  With  it  was 
blended  the  instinct  that  prompts  white 
men  to  voluntarily  put  themselves  in  the 
way  of  hardships  and  difficulties  so  that 
they  may  surmount  them. 

After  all,  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  fight 
along  mile  after  mile  through  the  clouds. 
It  was  a  fine  thing  to  feel  that  one  was 
doing  something  that  was  hard  and 
worthy  of  achievement.  It  was  some- 
thing to  climb  across  an  almost  inacces- 
sible mountain  chain  to  this  Similakameen, 
even  if  in  the  end  we  did  not  get  the 
gold!  If  we  died — well,  other  men  had 
died  before  us!  Other  men's  bones  had 
lain  whitening.  We  were  not  the  first 
men  who  had  gone  off  and  grappled 
danger  in  search  of  treasure.  If  Fate 
willed  it  that  we  were  not  to  come  back, 
what  of  it?  It  was  as  good  to  die  one 
way  as  another. 

How    glorious    and    terrible    were    the 


Similakameen  201 

mountains !  And  how  silent.  The  dis- 
tant roar  of  the  torrents  seemed  but  to 
make  more  clear  this  strange,  universal 
silence.  We  passed  through  gloomy,  ter- 
rifying, vast  canyons.  We  saw  glaciers 
hundreds  of  years  old  giving  forth  the 
rays  of  the  sun  in  a  shimmering  blaze  of 
wonderful  colours. 

North  of  us  lay  the  great  Klondike 
region.  And  north  of  this  again  lay  the 
immense  trackless  region  of  the  Midnight 
Sun. 


II 

AT  last  we  had  got  to  our  journey's  end. 
We  were  in  Similakameen.  The  first 
thing  we  did  was  to  stake  out  our  claim. 
There  was  not  much  difficulty  about  this, 
as  the  limbs  of  the  law,  who  sweat  miners, 
and  make  it  awkward  for  them,  had  not  as 
yet  got  up  into  the  mountains.  The  camp 
had  not  become  important  enough,  and, 
besides,  the  journey  was  an  ugly  one. 
Some  of  the  men  with  whom  we  had 
started  in  the  steamer  had  got  in  before 


202          A  Man  Adrift 

us.     Others  were  still  straggling  behind  in 
the  distance. 

We  rested  for  a  day  or  so,  as  we  were 
used  up  through  the  hardships  we  had 
endured  along  the  trail.  It  had  taken  us 
sixteen  days  to  come  the  hundred  and 
eighty  miles. 

The  camp  lay  around  the  banks  of  a 
creek,  and  ftv*  ipi^g  done  was  of  the 
most  primitive  kind — placer  mining.  Get- 
ting machinery  up  to  a  place  like  this  for 
the  purpose  of  crushing  ore  was  of  course 
quite  out  of  the  question.  It  was  bad 
enough  to  get  flour  up,  for  every  ounce  of 
it  had  to  be  carried  on  the  backs  of  Indians. 
The  loads  were  fastened  on  to  their  backs 
with  broad  bands  which  were  arranged  so 
as  to  pass  around  their  foreheads.  This 
way  of  arranging  the  load  brought  into 
play  the  powerful  muscles  of  the  neck,  and 
was  a  great  help  to  the  Indian  in  the  carry- 
ing of  his  load  up  steep  and  awkward 
places.  It  was  simply  a  utilising  of  the 
force  a  man  exerts  when  he  throws  his 
head  forward  in  the  effort  of  climbing. 

A  thing  that  struck  us  hard  when  we 


Similakameen  203 

first  got  into  camp  was  the  fact  that  flour 
was  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  pound.  Bacon 
was  something  fabulous,  and  not  to  be 
thought  of  for  a  moment.  And,  as  we 
had  already  made  a  heavy  inroad  into 
our  stock  of  provisions,  we  began  to  get 
nervous.  Bob,  however,  had  some  money 
left,  and  he  bought  twenty  pounds  of  flour 
at  the  store.  We  would  have  to  take  our 
chances  of  eking  it  out  by  hunting  and 
fishing. 

When  I  made  inquiries  from  the  other 
miners  concerning  the  big  finds,  I  found 
that  imagination  had  helped  out  the  stories 
I  had  heard  in  Vancouver.  True,  one  or 
two  men  had  struck  big  paying  pans,  but 
there  were  lots  of  fellows  who  had  struck 
nothing.  Many  had  left  the  place,  and 
when  I  asked  why  we  had  not  met  them  I 
was  told  that  they  had  gone  off  for  the 
Fraser  River  along  another  trail.  Miners 
have  a  feeling  against  going  back  on  the 
same  trail.  If  possible,  they  will  find 
another. 

Going  to  work  was  quite  simple.  All 
we  had  to  do  was  to  build  a  rough  wooden 


204          A  Man  Adrift 

cradle,  and  fasten  across  the  top  of  it  the 
sieve  we  had  brought  with  us  from  Van- 
couver. Beneath  this  we  had  fixed  a  piece 
of  blanket  to  catch  a  certain  heavy,  black, 
slimy  sand  as  it  oozed  through  the  sieve. 
The  gold  dust  was  in  this  sand. 

When  we  were  ready,  I  dug  up  a  shovel- 
ful of  sand  and  gravel  from  the  side  of  the 
creek,  and  pitched  it  into  the  sieve  on 
the  top  of  the  cradle.  Bob  immediately 
reached  down  his  scoop  into  the  stream, 
lifted  the  water,  and  poured  it  slowly  over 
the  sand  and  gravel,  rocking  the  cradle 
gently  as  he  did  so.  When  the  fine,  heavy 
sand  had  sifted  through,  he  detached  the 
sieve,  and  threw  away  the  gravel  and 
coarse  sand.  Then  I  threw  in  another 
shovelful  or  so,  and  exactly  the  same 
operation  was  gone  through  again. 

This  was  placer  mining. 

We  were  at  it  the  whole  of  the  day. 
Sometimes  Bob  would  take  the  shovel  and 
I  the  rocker  for  a  change.  Men  were 
scattered  along  the  banks  of  the  creek, 
working  as  we  were  working,  for  nearly  a 
mile. 


Similakameen  205 

When  night  was  coming  on  we  stopped, 
lifted  off  the  sieve,  took  the  blanket  gently 
out  of  the  cradle,  and  brought  it  over  to 
the  shack  we  had  built  for  ourselves. 
Here  we  dried  it  thoroughly  at  the  fire 
outside  the  front  of  the  door.  When  dry, 
we  shook  the  sand  out  of  it  carefully,  and 
afterwards  ran  quicksilver  through  it  to 
attract  the  gold.  When  we  melted  off 
the  quicksilver  the  next  day,  there  before 
our  eyes  was  the  precious  dust.  It  did  us 
good  to  see  it.  True,  there  were  none  of 
Bob's  "  nuggets  "  in  it,  but  still  it  was  gold. 
We  could  easily  get  the  little  heap  on  to 
the  point  of  a  knife — a  little,  dull,  heavy, 
yellow  heap.  Through  it  ran  a  few  little 
pieces  about  the  size  of  a  pin-head.  "Your 
nuggets/'  I  said  to  Bob.  He  laughed  as 
he  carefully  put  the  dust  away  into  a  little 
gold-bag.  Then,  with  a  will,  we  went  to 
work  again,  cradling  and  washing  the  sand. 

For  the  first  few  days  we  did  very  well, 
and  once  Bob  actually  did  find  a  little 
nugget  that  weighed  something  over  half 
an  ounce.  He  was  wild  with  excitement 
over  it,  and  so,  indeed,  was  I.  We  looked 


206          A  Man  Adrift 

at  it  eagerly,  and  passed  it  one  to  the  other 
several  times,  and  tried  hard  to  persuade 
ourselves  that  it  was  heavier  than  it  really 
was.  We  could  tell  that  it  was  pure  gold 
right  through  —  that  there  was  no  hard, 
structural  alloy  running  through  it — for  it 
was  soft  enough  to  give  a  little  when  we 
squeezed  it  between  the  thumb  and  fingers. 
This  placer  mining  was  the  most  excit- 
ing work  I  had  ever  done.  After  all,  we 
could  never  tell  what  we  were  going  to 
find.  Whenever  I  sank  my  shovel  into 
the  sand  there  was  no  knowing  whether  or 
not  I  might  heave  a  nugget  the  size  of  my 
fist  into  the  sieve.  Other  men  had  done 
so,  and  why  not  I  ?  It  was  delightful  to 
feel  that  perhaps  I  was  lifting  up  on  my 
shovel  a  piece  of  gold  the  size  of  many 
Spanish  doubloons.  Whilst  I  was  digging 
I  was  always  thinking  of  gold  doubloons. 
The  treasure  I  had  read  of  in  the  stories 
of  the  old  pirates  and  the  treasure  I  was 
seeking  after  here  in  the  mountains  ran 
together  in  my  mind.  The  work  was  a 
bit  hard  and  steady,  but  I  never  minded 
that.  It  appealed  to  the  profound  love  of 


Similakameen  207 

chance  that  I  shared  in  common  with  other 
men. 

There  was  no  fear  now  of  our  running 
out  of  provisions,  at  any  rate  for  a  time. 
At  the  store  the  gold  dust  was  taken  just 
as  money  would  be  taken.  And  we  were 
able  to  indulge  in  the  extreme  luxury  of 
bacon.  They  had  finely  adjusted  scales 
to  weigh  the  dust,  and  it  was  a  sight  to 
watch  the  miners  looking  over  and  under 
and  around  these  scales  to  see  if  the 
balance  was  absolutely  true.  Fellows 
spoke  of  ounces  and  half -ounces  and 
quarter-ounces  of  gold  as  they  would  of 
so  many  pounds  or  dollars. 

At  night  poker  was  played  a  great  deal 
in  the  store,  and  when  we  got  enough  dust 
ahead  Bob  went  and  took  a  hand  in  the 
game.  His  usual  good  luck  was  with  him. 
This  poker-playing  helped  out  our  digging 
immensely.  I  must  say  that  Bob  was  the 
luckiest  man  at  cards  I  have  ever  known. 

Curiously  enough,  there  was  never  a  row 
over  the  game.  In  fact,  there  was  never 
a  row  in  the  whole  camp  while  we  were 
there.  The  reason  for  this  was  simple. 


20  8          A  Man  Adrift 

A  row  would  mean  business,  for  every 
man  was  armed  for  all  he  was  worth. 
Someone  would  surely  have  been  killed. 
So  the  result  was  peace  and  amity  amongst 
a  crowd  who  were  in  the  main  hard  men. 
And  right  here  I  must  say  that  a  mining 
camp  in  any  part  of  the  world  is  as  a  rule 
peaceful  before  the  limbs  of  the  law  come 
into  it  to  extort  blackmail  from  the  miners 
for  themselves  and  their  Governments.  It 
is  the  police  who  invariably  provoke  the 
rows.  Any  man  who  has  been  in  gold 
rushes  will  attest  to  this. 

Now  and  then  a  couple  of  miners  would 
start  away  from  camp  to  go  over  the  trail 
off  to  Vancouver  or  Port  Moody.  They 
had  made  their  pile.  On  such  an  occasion 
we  would  get  together  to  see  them  off,  and 
give  them  a  parting  cheer  for  luck.  But 
often er  men  were  going  away  who  had 
struck  next  to  nothing,  and  who  were 
leaving  because  they  had  had  enough  of 
it.  In  these  cases  we  would  club  together 
to  get  them  some  bacon  and  flour  and 
ammunition  if  they  were  short.  The 
primal  conditions  under  which  we  lived 


Similakameen  209 

made  us  realise  that  it  was  our  duty  to 
relieve  when  possible  the  necessities  of 
others.  And  it  was  not  done  with  the  air 
of  bestowing  a  favour.  It  was  done  simply 
and  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Sometimes  Bob  and  I  would  take  a  day 
off  and  scour  around  for  game.  It  was 
as  well  not  to  be  buying  too  much  grub 
at  the  store.  Though  it  was  a  big  game 
country,  it  was  awkward  to  stalk  the  game, 
so  we  had  to  confine  our  attention  to  birds. 
One  of  the  men  in  the  next  claim  to  us 
lent  Bob  a  shot-gun  with  the  understand- 
ing that  we  were  to  whack  up  our  kill 
with  them.  We  provided  the  ammunition, 
which  ran  frightfully  high  at  the  store. 
Quails  were  what  we  used  to  get  mostly, 
and  we  got  a  good  few  of  them,  owing 
mainly,  I  suppose,  to  the  fact  of  the  gun 
being  of  a  large  bore,  and  to  the  spreading 
of  the  shot  in  the  air. 

Our  claim  gave  forth  a  small,  steady 
yield.  Bob's  "  nuggets "  never  arrived. 
The  worth  of  the  pans  through  the  whole 
of  the  day  averaged  about  sixty  dollars. 

Out  of  this,  of  course,  a  good  deal  had  to 
o 


210          A  Man  Adrift 

go  for  provisions.  The  men  who  kept 
the  store  were  the  fellows  who  really  got 
the  bulk  of  the  gold.  They  took  no  risks, 
but  simply  charged  famine  prices  for 
everything.  To  bring  things  to  Simila- 
kameen  was,  to  be  sure,  most  expensive, 
but,  like  all  middlemen,  they  took  a  double 
and  treble  advantage  of  it.  They  neither 
got  the  gold  nor  did  they  tote  the  pro- 
visions. They  just  sat  tight,  and  skimmed 
the  fat  from  the  pot. 

However,  Bob  still  kept  up  his  form  at 
poker,  and  this  stood  us  in  good  stead. 
Winning  gold  in  the  store  from  the  other 
miners  was  not  perhaps  so  romantic  as 
getting  it  out  of  the  earth  in  nuggets — 
but  still  it  served. 

After  awhile  our  claim  began  to  thin 
out,  and  we  went  further  up  the  creek, 
and  staked  out  another.  Here  our  luck 
was  something  about  the  same  as  it  was 
in  the  first  claim — just  a  small,  steady 
yield.  Still,  there  was  no  use  in  repining, 
for  there  were  lots  of  fellows  who  struck 
hardly  anything  at  all. 

We  worked  on  for  about  six  or  seven 


Similakameen  211 

weeks,  and  then  we  began  to  think  of 
making  tracks  for  the  Fraser  River.  It 
was  the  end  of  August,  and  it  was  just 
as  well  to  be  getting  back  while  the  good 
weather  lasted. 

And  one  morning  we  counted  things 
up,  and  found  that  we  would  have  four 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  dust  clear  after 
getting  a  stock  of  grub  and  ammunition — 
two  thousand  dollars  apiece.  What  with 
Bob's  skill  at  poker  and  our  joint  toil  we 
had  not  done  so  badly  after  all. 

And  the  next  day  we  packed  up  and 
started  from  Similakameen. 


XV.— THE  CH  ILK  ATS 

BOB  and  I  were  in  a  hopeful  mood  as 
we  went  back  along  the  trail.  True,  we 
had  not  made  our  fortune,  but  we  had 
managed  to  get  to  Similakameen  all 
right,  and  to  come  away  with  something 
into  the  bargain.  Our  work,  of  course, 
was  still  cut  out  for  us,  but  we  had  made 
the  main  point,  which  really  was  to  go  and 
see  what  the  place  looked  like.  The  possi- 
bility of  getting  a  fortune  had  only  an  in- 
cidental bearing  on  the  project.  At  least, 
that  was  the  way  it  appeared  to  us  now  as 
we  talked  the  matter  over.  Bob  laughed 
over  his  "  nuggets,"  and  said  that  we  had 
enough  to  carry  over  the  trail  as  it 
was. 

The  trail  we  were  taking  was  one  that 
skirted  to  the  north.     We  had  been  told 

212 


The  Chilkats  213 

by  Sfwashes  who  toted  provisions  into 
camp  that  it  was  easier  than  the  one  we 
had  come  by.  We  found  this  to  be  a  fact. 
The  only  drawback  was  that  it  would  run 
us  on  to  the  north  fork  of  the  Fraser 
River  instead  of  running  us  out  at 
Fort  Hope.  This  would  mean  perhaps 
delay  in  getting  a  boat  down  the  river. 
However  we  chanced  it.  One  cannot 
have  everything.  Besides,  the  trail  was 
new  to  us. 

After  we  had  been  out  three  or  four 
days  we  came  across  two  men  who  were 
returning  after  prospecting  to  the  north. 
They  told  us  of  having  struck  a  place  rich 
in  pay  dirt,  but  that  it  was  impossible  to 
work  it  because  the  water  was  too  far  away. 
This  is  one  of  the  difficulties  in  gold-hunt- 
ing. Besides  finding  the  gold  in  paying 
quantities  one  must  also  find  the  water  to 
wash  it  out. 

These  men,  who  were  Canadians,  also 
told  us  a  piece  of  news  they  had  heard 
that  made  us  feel  anxious.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  Chilkats  were  "  out."  This 
meant  that  our  bones  would  stand  a  good 


214          A  Man  Adrift 

chance  of  lying  in  the  mountains  if  they 
came  upon  us,  for  the  Chilkats  were  hard, 
savage,  fighting  Indians.  They  were  a 
different  race  altogether  from  the  Siwashes, 
who  were,  generally  speaking,  inoffensive, 
and  amenable  to  the  missionaries.  A 
Chilkat  was  as  ugly  and  as  dangerous  on 
the  warpath  as  a  Sioux  Indian.  However, 
to  do  them  justice,  they  never  went  out  with- 
out being  given  a  good  reason  for  it  in  some 
way  or  another  by  white  men.  But  this 
thought  was  rather  cold  comfort  just  then. 

The  Canadians  and  ourselves  decided 
to  keep  together  on  the  trail.  Four  would 
have  a  better  chance  of  standing  off  a  rush 
than  two. 

We  kept  the  sharpest  look-out  just  as 
we  were  going  in  or  going  out  of  a  canyon. 
Then  was  the  greatest  danger  of  falling 
into  an  ambush,  for  the  Chilkats  were  in 
the  habit  of  posting  themselves  amongst 
the  big  rocks  that  lay  around  the  mouth. 
Here  they  would  lie  in  wait  for  days  for 
white  men  to  come  along.  They  could 
not  only  hear  men  coming  along  the  trail, 
when  they  were  miles  and  miles  away, 


The  Chilkats  215 

but  they  could  tell  how  many  were 
coming.  It  was  said  they  did  this  by 
going  up  into  a  certain  part  of  the 
canyon  and  listening.  Sound  acts  in  a 
strange  way  in  the  mountains,  and  the 
Indians  knew  the  mountains  and  their 
ways  absolutely. 

Going  through  these  gloomy  canyons 
filled  us  with  dread.  They  looked  so  dark 
and  evil,  and  tremendous.  And  so  still. 
It  was  when  we  were  in  the  middle  of  one 
that  our  nerves  were  strung  to  the  hardest 
tension.  Death  seemed  to  be  hanging 
about  us — to  be  ahead  of  us — to  be  be- 
hind us.  The  vengeance  of  the  Indians 
seemed  to  be  lurking  in  the  immense,  sinister 
shadows  thrown  down  upon  us  from  the 
vast,  black  walls  of  the  canyon.  It  is 
terrible  to  live  momentarily  in  expectation 
of  violent  death. 

At  night  when  we  lay  down  we  did  not 
build  a  fire.  It  was  not  a  safe  thing  to  do, 
for  a  fire  is  seen  a  long  way  through  the 
mountains.  We  used  to  go  off  three  or 
four  hundred  yards  from  the  trail.  Each 
of  us  took  a  turn  at  standing  watch  whilst 


2i6         A  Man  Adrift 

the  rest  slept  in  their  blankets.  But  at 
night — as  long  as  we  had  no  fire — we  were 
fairly  safe.  The  danger  was  in  the  day- 
time. 

But  in  time  men  will  get  used  to  any- 
thing, and  at  last  we  got  used  to  the  idea 
of  being  rushed  at  any  moment.  We 
began  to  be  ourselves — to  laugh  and 
joke  and  talk.  Perhaps  the  Chilkats 
were  not  "out"  at  all!  It  might  have 
been  but  a  false  report.  And  our 
spirits  rose  as  we  tramped  along.  Men 
can't  stay  at  a  tension  for  ever.  If 
the  Chilkats  wanted  us  they  would  come 
for  us ! 

However,  we  kept  up  the  same  sharp, 
constant  watch. 

We  were  getting  well  over  the  trail. 
In  five  or  six  days  more  we  would  be  at 
the  north  fork  of  the  Fraser.  Here  we 
would  be  all  right.  We  could  get  to  Fort 
Hope  without  any  trouble,  for,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  the  Canadians  knew  a  half- 
breed  who  had  a  boat  big  enough  to  take 
us  all  down  the  river.  From  there  Bob 
and  I  could  go  over  to  Vancouver  or  Port 


The  Chilkats  217 

Moody,  and  have  a  little  time  with  the 
gold  we  had  brought  from  Similakameen. 
I  suggested  to  Bob  that  perhaps  we  might 
as  well  pay  for  a  passage  to  Europe  before 
we  had  the  "  time,"  so  as  to  see  what  going 
as  a  passenger  was  like.  But  Bob  didn't 
see  it.  And  one  of  the  Canadians  said  he 
wouldn't  live  in  Europe  if  he  were  given  a 
town  in  it  for  nothing.  The  North-west 
was  good  enough  for  him !  He  had  lived 
in  it  for  twenty  years !  He  was  very  sore 
on  civilisation,  was  this  Canadian.  He 
said  that  in  it  men  were  most  cruel  to 
one  another.  They  were  worse  than  the 
Chilkats,  who  were,  maybe,  trailing  us 
now  to  kill  us ! 

I  was  in  the  thick  of  a  strong  argument 
with -him  as  to  this  assertion  when  Bob, 
who  was  going  on  in  front,  made  a  sign  to 
us.  We  knew  at  once  what  was  up.  The 
Chilkats  were  coming  down  upon  us !  We 
were  in  for  it.  As  there  were  only  four  of 
us,  they  would  be  sure  to  try  and  rush  us. 
"  Down!"  shouted  Bob,  throwing  himself 
flat.  We  dropped,  too,  barely  in  time  to 
miss  a  volley  that  seemed  to  come 


2i8          A  Man  Adrift 

from  everywhere.  It  was  hardly  the 
place  where  we  would  have  expected 
the  Chilkats,  for  we  were  nowhere  near 
a  canyon. 

We  stayed  down  flat  for  a  few  seconds 
— it  is  hard  to  hit  a  man  when  he  is  lying 
prone  on  the  ground — and  then  all  at  once 
there  broke  out  a  most  horrible  whooping 
and  screeching.  Still,  we  could  see  no  one 
as  yet.  The  screeching  was  enough  to 
upset  one,  but  by  this  time  we  had  got  a 
hold  upon  ourselves.  We  would  work  for 
all  we  were  able.  The  bad  part  of  it  was, 
however,  that  we  were  not  under  cover, 
and  it  would  not  have  paid  to  try  and  get 
to  it.  Where  the  Chilkats  were  it  was 
hard  to  tell.  Indians  can  hide  behind 
nothing.  The  noise  seemed  to  be  going 
on  all  around  us.  "I  don't  think  there's  so 
many  of  'em  after  all,"  said  the  Canadian 
with  whom  I  had  been  having  the 
argument. 

Suddenly  an  Indian  seemed  to  spring 
up  out  of  the  ground.  He  was  hardly  over 
twenty  feet  from  us,  and  was  rushing  full 
at  us  with  a  yell,  when  the  Canadian  raised 


The  Chilkats  219 

himself  easily  and  dropped  him  with  his 
Winchester.  The  ball  had  gone  through 
his  body,  and  he  fell  over  on  his  face.  The 
knife  he  had  brandished  shot  out  of  his 
hand  towards  us,  and  Bob  grabbed  it. 
"  Up  !  Up ! "  I  shouted — and  we  were  up 
to  meet  the  rush,  back  to  back.  They 
came  for  us,  yelling — wild,  savage-faced 
men,  clad  in  skins  and  leggings.  They 
had  dropped  their  guns,  and  were  on 
us  with  their  knives.  It  was  then  that 
I  found  out  that  there  is  no  weapon 
like  a  revolver  of  big  calibre  for  close, 
sharp  work. 
******* 

The  whole  thing  was  over.  The 
Canadian  was  right.  There  were  not  so 
many  Indians,  after  all — no  more  than  a 
dozen,  but  they  made  noise  enough  for  a 
hundred.  Poor  old  Canadian  !  He  was 
gone.  A  big  Indian  had  knifed  the  life 
out  of  him.  It  was  a  slashing  up-stroke. 
The  Canadian  would  have  been  all  right, 
but  somehow  the  barrel  of  his  Winchester 
got  in  his  way  when  the  Indian  was  close 
up  to  him,  and,  as  he  was  trying  to  turn, 


220          A  Man  Adrift 

the  knife  went  into  him.  This  Indian 
gave  more  trouble  than  all  the  rest  put 
together.  After  finishing  the  Canadian, 
he  gave  Bob  a  jab  in  the  shoulder,  and 
would  have  finished  him,  too,  only  that  I 
got  in  on  him  in  time  with  the  revolver. 
When  he  was  out  of  the  way  the  fight 
slackened,  and  finally  what  was  left  of  the 
Chilkats  drew  off. 

I  took  Bob's  coat  off,  and,  getting  out 
my  needle  and  thread,  I  stitched  up  the 
slash  in  his  shoulder  as  well  as  I  could. 
He  was  nearly  done  up  through  loss  of 
blood.  The  Canadian's  partner  was  cry- 
ing over  him.  They  had  been  together 
ten  years,  and  it  took  him  hard  to  see  him 
dead.  He  was  lying  close  to  the  big 
Chilkat,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  we  had  to 
leave  him  as  he  lay.  We  could  not  dig 
a  grave  for  him,  for  there  was  nothing 
but  rock  all  around  us.  And,  again,  it 
would  not  do  for  us  to  wait  about  too 
much,  for  the  Chilkats  might  come  back 
again. 

Again  we  were  on  the  trail.  This  time 
we  had  to  go  very  slowly  on  account  of 


The  Chilkats  22 1 

Bob.  I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  about 
him.  He  seemed  to  get  weaker  all  the 
time.  A  wounded  man  needs  rest  above 
everything  else,  and  we  were  not  able  to 
take  it.  We  had  to  walk  him  slowly 
between  us. 

The  Chilkats  did  not  bother  us 
again. 

When  we  were  two  days'  journey  from 
the  north  fork  of  the  river  we  fell  in  with 
an  English  hunting  party  who  were  very 
kind  to  us,  and  who  helped  us  out. 
They  gave  me  some  quinine  for  Bob 
and  some  linen  to  make  a  proper 
bandage  for  his  wound.  Only  for  meet- 
ing them  I'm  afraid  he  would  have 
gone  under. 

Finally  we  got  to  the  north  fork.  We 
stayed  here  for  a  day  or  so  with  the  half- 
breed  whom  the  Canadian  knew.  Then 
he  took  the  three  of  us  down  the  river  to 
Fort  Hope.  The  voyage  in  the  boat  did 
us  good. 

I  was  glad  when  the  whole  thing  was 
over  and  I  had  got  Bob  safe  to  Vancouver. 
There  he  had  to  go  on  the  sick  list  for  a 


222          A  Man  Adrift 

time.  When  he  was  right  again  we  went 
over  to  Victoria  to  take  our  ease  and  to 
put  the  boys  on  the  best  way  of  going  to 
Similakameen. 


XVI.— FROM  VICTORIA 
TO  NANAIMO 

IN  the  old  days  people  took  life  very 
easily  at  Victoria,  in  Vancouver  Island. 
They  opened  their  shops  late  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  closed  them  up  early  in  the  after- 
noon. Over  their  dinners  they  lingered 
Jong.  They  smoked  to  soothe  themselves, 
and  talked  calmly  about  nothing  in  par- 
ticular. If  there  were  not  enough  holidays 
in  the  year  they  made  more,  so  as  to 
supply  properly  their  strong  demand  for 
rest.  Food  was  very  cheap  and  easy  to 
get,  and  white  labour  commanded  a  high 
price.  The  Si  wash  Indian  sold  the  game 
he  had  killed  to  the  white  man  for  next  to 
nothing.  It  cost  almost  less  for  a  deer 
bought  from  him  than  it  would  to  buy 
enough  powder  and  shot  to  kill  it.  Salmon 
was  still  cheaper  and  easier  to  get.  This 
223 


224          A  Man  Adrift 

state  of  affairs  was,  to  be  sure,  favourable 
to  the  inhabitants,  for  their  command  of 
that  good  and  sufficient  amount  of  leisure 
which  poets  and  philosophers  say  is  so 
necessary  for  man's  best  development. 

Bob  and  I  got  to  Victoria  when  the  old 
days  had  slipped  as  it'  were  into  the  new 
days— a  trick  they  have.  The  former 
restful  state  of  affairs  had  passed  away. 
The  hurry-up  spirit  of  the  near-by  United 
States  had  crept,  or  rather  rushed,  into 
the  town.  Everybody  was  hustling.  Men 
were  more  plentiful,  and  labour  was 
cheaper.  The  shops  opened  early  and 
closed  late.  The  people  were  forgetting 
to  linger,  and  they  had  stopped  studding 
the  year  with  holidays.  The  men  who 
had  a  yearning  for  leisure  were  gradually 
being  forced  to  leave  town  and  go  up  into 
the  northern  part  of  the  island.  There 
they  could  live  with  the  Siwashes  and  do 
nothing  but  fish  a  little,  hunt  a  little,  and 
laze  and  smoke  to  their  heart's  content. 
This  Victoria  was  the  finest  town  in 
all  British  Columbia.  About  thirteen 
thousand  people  lived  in  it.  The  hurry-up 


Victoria  to  Nanaimo      225 

and  rush-around  spirit  had  resulted  in  the 
giving  to  it  of  straight,  paved  highways 
and  drives.  The  better  the  roads  the 
swifter  the  rush,  evidently  became  the 
motto  of  the  people,  who  had  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  it  was  necessary  for  the 
well-being  and  happiness  to  try  their  level 
best  to  get  twenty-five  hours'  time  out  of 
the  twenty-four. 

The  Chinese  were  well  represented 
here.  They  had  on  the  face  of  it  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  there  were  flowerier 
places  even  than  the  Flowery  Land,  and 
that  this  was  one  of  them.  They  washed 
clothes,  cooked,  did  light  labouring  work, 
and,  above  all,  looked  unpicturesque. 
They  were  an  unstartling  and  uninterest- 
ing lot.  They  embodied  prosaicism.  The 
Victorians  were  always  grumbling  about 
them.  They  said  that  when  they  came  to 
a  country  they  carried  hard  times  with 
them  on  their  backs.  The  assertion  was 
quite  true,  mainly  because  the  white 
capitalist  used  them  as  a  means  to  grind 
down  and  starve  to  death  his  white 
brother.  In  the  long-winded,  bitter  dis- 


226          A  Man  Adrift 

cussions  I  heard  about  them  no  one  ever 
brought  out  this  point.  Neither  did  any- 
one mention  the  fact  that  gold-greedy 
white  men  smuggled  them  across  frontiers 
and  through  harbours  in  defiance  of  their 
own  laws  and  exclusion  acts. 

Just  before  the  close  of  the  restful 
epoch,  Victoria,  I  heard,  was  a  rather 
trying  place  to  live  in.  The  old-timers 
said  it  was  the  rendezvous  of  outlaws,  off- 
colour  adventurers,  and  other  kindred 
gentry  who  had  departed  in  haste  from 
different  parts  of  the  world  for  the  good 
of  their  health.  An  old  white-whiskered 
Victorian,  who  did  me  the  honour  of 
taking  a  drink  with  me,  told  me  that  the 
gold-find  in  Similakameen  attracted  them, 
and  that  Victoria  was  their  stopping-off 
place.  I  was  not  aware  that  Similakameen 
had  been  known  so  long,  but  I  listened 
with  the  respect  that  is  due  to  the  aged, 
and  when  I  thought  that  the  time  was 
ripe  I  asked  him  to  have  another  drink. 
He  took  the  drink,  and  then  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  these  fellows  were  always 
raising  rows  and  ructions,  maiming  and 


Victoria  to  Nanaimo      227 

killing  each  other,  and  breaking  the  peace 
generally.  They  had  little  time  for  work, 
and  plenty  of  time  for  fighting.  As  soon 
as  they  made  a  stake  at  the  placer  mines, 
he  said,  they  would  come  in  and  spend 
it,  and  call  the  town  to  witness  that  they 
were  spending  it.  At  this  I  suggested  to 
the  old-timer  that  they  must  have  been  a 
desirable  acquisition  to  the  regular  popula- 
tion in  the  sense  of  affording  an  element 
of  excitement  to  off-set  and  balance  the 
easiness  and  sleepiness  of  the  town.  The 
old  man  paused,  and  thought  a  little.  But 
I  can't  say  he  rose  to  my  suggestion. 
Instead,  he  asserted  that  it  would  have 
been  all  right  and  proper  if  these  fellows 
had  only  fought  with  and  exterminated 
one  another,  but  now  and  then  they  had 
the  nerve  to  turn  their  attentions  to  the 
old-time  inhabitants.  The  result  was  that 
they  were  suppressed  vigorously.  They 
found  to  their  cost  that  the  old-timers 
knew  a  thing  or  two  more  about  fighting 
than  they  did. 

At  this  the  aged,  white- whiskered  man 
finished  his  drink. 


228          A  Man  Adrift 

Not  long  after  this  Bob  and  I  found 
ourselves  strapped.  Making  valiant  efforts 
to  relieve  the  Saharan  thirst  of  bar-room 
crowds  soon  eased  us  of  what  we  had 
brought  from  Similakameen.  Fellows 
would  listen  admiringly  to  our  recitals  of 
our  adventures  along  the  trail,  and  then 
calmly  borrow  from  us. 

So  we  left  for  Vancouver. 

Here  I  went  to  the  Globe  Hotel  and 
made  a  borrow  from  Ben  Woods,  the  pro- 
prietor. Then  it  was  that  Bob  conceived 
the  brilliant  idea  of  going  over  to  Nanaimo, 
a  town  in  the  northern  part  of  Vancouver 
Island.  The  brilliancy  of  the  idea  lay  in 
the  fact  that  we  had  never  been  there. 

Before  we  thought  of  starting,  however, 
we  took  the  precaution  of  spending  the 
money  I  had  borrowed.  Then  we  worked 
our  passage  across  the  straits  on  a  big 
freight  sloop. 

It  was  beginning  to  snow  when  we  got 
to  Nanaimo,  and  things  began  to  look 
rather  bad  for  us.  The  town  had  a 
mouldered  and  worn  appearance,  due,  I 
suppose,  to  the  incessant  rains.  On  the 


Victoria  to  Nanaimo      229 

coast  in  British  Columbia  it  rains  steadily 
for  at  least  five  months  in  the  year. 

It  was  a  dull  wooden  grey  town  ;  and 
it  was  snowing  in  it ;  and  night  was 
coming  on  and  Bob  and  I  had  no  money. 
We  walked  dolefully  along  the  main  street 
trying  to  think  as  to  ways  and  means.  A 
knotty  problem  was  before  us.  Where 
should  we  get  something  to  eat,  and  where 
should  we  sleep  that  night  ?  We  had  our 
blankets  with  us,  but  going  outside  the 
town  to  sleep  out  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  It  was  snowing. 

We  had  got  to  the  end  of  the  street, 
and  were  standing  for  a  moment.  Over 
across  the  way  was  a  saloon  with  windows 
well  lit  up,  and  looking  altogether  cheerful 
— an  oasis  in  the  midst  of  darkness  and 
snow  and  damp.  How  we  would  have 
liked  to  have  gone  in !  But,  alas !  we 
hadn't  the  price.  I  could  not  help  but 
think  of  the  money  we  had  flung  around 
so  freely  when  we  were  telling  the  fellows 
in  Victoria  all  about  things.  The  thought 
was  a  useless  one — though  it  did  bear 
most  exasperatingly  upon  the  point.  I 


230          A  Man  Adrift 

turned  it  over  in  my  mind,  or,  rather,  it 
turned  itself  over  in  my  mind.  If — but 
the  if  was  a  big  one. 

Men  were  going  into  the  saloon,  for  it 
was  Saturday  night,  and  they  were  coming 
to  invest  part  of  their  wages  in  a  little 
jollity  and  sociability.  Round  about 
Nanaimo  were  coal  mines,  and  these  were 
the  miners.  I  could  tell  that  they  were 
coal-miners  by  the  set  and  walk  of  them, 
for  I  belonged  to  the  North  of  England, 
where  one  is  in  the  habit  of  seeing  them 
about. 

Bob  and  I  still  gazed  yearningly  at  the 
saloon.  Neither  of  us  said  a  word. 

All  at  once  an  idea  broke  in  on  me. 
It  was  a  simple  idea,  but  the  more  I 
examined  it  the  more  luminous  it  got.  I 
turned  and  said  a  few  words  to  Bob,  and 
he  grinned  with  approval. 

We  walked  across  the  road  and  into 
the  saloon. 

A  lot  of  men  were  drinking  at  the  bar. 
Yes,  they  were  all  coal-miners,  and  the 
most  of  them  were  men  from  the  north 
of  England.  There  was  no  mistaking 


Victoria  to  Nanaimo      231 

their  strong,  hard-looking  frames  and  in- 
telligent faces. 

o 

1 '  Mates,"  said  I,  in  a  loud  voice,  "me 
and  my  mate  here  have  just  come  over 
from  Vancouver.  Before  that  we  were  in 
Similakameen,  but  luck  was  against  us, 
and  we  had  it  rough  coming  over  the 
trail.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  sing 
you  a  song  or  two.  If  anyone  likes  to 
give  a  trifle  after,  we  should  be  thankful. 
My  mate  here  will  go  round.  I  come 
from  the  north  of  England." 

I  had  struck  the  right  note. 

"  Wheer  abouts  does  tha'  come  from  ?  " 
said  one  man,  in  a  broad  Lancashire 
accent.  "  Monchester,"  I  said,  with  a 
smile.  "  Eh,  lad,"  he  said,  as  he  grasped 
my  hand,  "  tha'  knows  Bowton.  Ah  come 
from  theer.  Thee  and  thy  mate  come 
and  have  a  sup  wi'  me."  He  ordered 
drinks  for  us. 

We  were  all  right.  We  had  got  to  the 
oasis. 

It  turned  out  that  there  were  several 
Lancashire  men  in  the  crowd.  It  did  me 
good  to  hear  the  good  old  broad  burr 


2  32          A  Man  Adrift 

again.     A  man  who  belonged  to  Heywood 

— "  Yowwood,"   he   called    it — treated   us 

• 

next.  He  had  been  away  from  Lanca- 
shire for  twenty  years,  but  his  accent  was 
as  rich  as  if  he  had  only  left  it  the  day 
before.  We  were  getting  on  swimmingly. 
It  turned  out  that  the  landlord  also  was  a 
Lancashire  man.  To  use  a  placerism,  we 
had  struck  big  paying  pans. 

After  this  I  sang. 

My  first  song  was  "Tom  Bowling." 
Many  of  them  had  often  heard  it  sung  in 
the  Old  Country.  They  applauded  when 
I  had  finished.  "  Hey,  lad,  that's  good  !  " 
said  the  man  from  "  Bowton,"  and  the 
drinks  were  again  in  evidence.  Then  the 
landlord  asked  us  if  we  were  hungry,  and 
when  we  said  we  were,  he  brought  us 
back  into  the  parlour,  and  gave  us  a  big 
supper.  He  was  a  jolly-looking,  heart)' 
man,  was  the  landlord  —  a  typical,  red- 
faced,  old  English  tavern  landlord.  He 
looked  as  if  he  might  have  been  suddenly 
dropped  into  this  far  -  away  place  from 
"  Owdham  "  or  "  Bowton." 

After  supper  I  was  in  great  form,  and 


Victoria  to  Nanaimo      233 

sang  several  more  songs  in  the  bar-room. 
Then  Bob  went  round  with  the  hat.  He 
collected  over  fifteen  dollars.  We  were 
all  right.  And  that  night  we  went  over 
and  slept  at  the  house  of  the  man  from 
"  Bowton." 


XVII.— WITH  THE  INDIANS 

THE  man  from  "Bowton"  said  that  he 
would  get  us  a  job  in  the  coal  mines. 
But  that  hardly  suited  us.  Toil  in  the 
open  air  was  bad  enough,  but  toil  down 
in  the  darkness  of  the  mine  was  something 
to  get  away  from  altogether.  So  I  ex- 
plained to  our  friend  that  we  were  sailors, 
and  therefore  accustomed  to  good,  strong, 
fresh  air.  Besides,  Bob's  lungs  were  in 
a  delicate  condition,  I  added.  Bob's  looks 
hardly  bore  out  my  statement,  and  I  was 
afraid  the  man  from  "  Bowton "  would 
comment  upon  the  fact.  However,  to 
our  relief,  he  let  the  subject  of  work 
drop. 

Whilst  we  were  in  Nanaimo  we  came 

within  an  ace  of  being  Shanghaied.     Being 

Shanghaied  means  being  taken  aboard  a 

vessel  against  your  will — when  she  is  on 

234 


With  the  Indians        235 

the  point  of  sailing — and  being  forced  to 
do  a  sailor's  work  upon  her,  Men  are 
usually  Shanghaied  when  they  are  drunk, 
or  when  they  are  drugged,  as  the  case 
may  be.  The  thing  often  happens  in  a 
wharf  groggery.  A  man  is  hustled  out 
when  he  is  half  unconscious,  put  aboard 
a  boat,  and  taken  over  to  the  vessel 
which  is  lying  outside  ready  to  make 
sail.  This  way  of  getting  a  ship  its 
complement  of  hands  is  practised 
more  on  the  Pacific  Coast  than  any- 
where else.  The  custom  originated  in 
Shanghai. 

When  the  game  was  tried  upon  Bob 
and  myself  we  were  neither  drunk  nor 
drugged.  It  was  the  day  but  one  after 
my  singing  for  the  Lancashire  men  in 
the  saloon,  and  we  were  holding  on  as 
tight  as  we  could  to  the  money  Bob  had 
collected,  for  we  wanted  it  to  buy  flour 
and  bacon  to  take  with  us  to  Departure 
Bay. 

The  game  was  played  in  a  simple  and 
original  way.  A  man — who  looked  like 
a  stevedore  —  stopped  us  on  the  main 


236          A  Man  Adrift 

street,  and  asked  us  if  we  wanted  a  job 
unloading  a  ship  at  forty  cents  an  hour. 
We  said  we  did,  and  he  told  us  to  come 
along  with  him.  He  went  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  wharf,  where  he  got  into  a 
yawl,  bidding  us  do  the  same.  Then  he 
pulled  straight  out  into  the  bay.  I 
thought  it  rather  curious  that  the  ship  we 
were  going  to  work  on  was  not  tied  up 
to  the  wharf,  but  for  the  moment  I  said 
nothing. 

He  went  on  pulling  out  farther  and 
farther.  Finally,  I  thought  that  the  time 
was  ripe  for  Bob  and  myself  to  get  a  little 
light  on  the  subject.  I  asked  the  man 
where  the  ship  was.  He  shipped  an  oar, 
and  pointed  to  a  vessel  that  lay  off  half 
a  mile  away.  "Out  there,"  he  said.  I 
looked  at  her.  She  was  a  big,  full-rigged 
ship.  The  man  bent  himself  to  his  oars 
again — pulling  strong.  I  thought  a  little, 
and  then  I  dropped  to  the  whole  scheme. 
He  was  out  to  Shanghai  us !  Once  aboard 
the  full-rigger  we  would  have  a  job  to  get 
ashore  again ! 

"Belay,"  I  said  to  him.     "Turn  back." 


With  the  Indians        237 

He  stopped  pulling,  and  said :  "  It's  all 
right.  Don't  you  want  the  job  ? "  I 
laughed,  and  Bob  laughed.  "  No,"  I  re- 
plied, "  we  don't  want  the  job  just  yet." 
But  the  man  was  a  bit  obstinate.  He 
told  us  that  it  was  all  right,  and  that 
he  would  have  to  pull  us  there  any- 
how. At  this  I  stood  up  in  the  boat, 
and  asked  him  if  he  could  swim.  He 
knew  what  I  meant,  and  he  turned  back 
at  once. 

When  we  got  on  the  wharf  again  I 
turned  round  and  struck  him  in  the 
face. 

Departure  Bay  was  only  six  miles  away 
from  Nanaimo,  and  we  walked  up  there 
after  we  had  bought  some  provisions  at  a 
store.  Our  plan  was  to  find  a  deserted 
shack  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  en- 
sconce ourselves  there  for  the  winter. 
We  would  have  an  easy  time  of  it  there 
along  with  the  Siwash  Indians  who  lived 
round  about.  Bob  and  I  had  heard  such 
a  lot  about  them  and  the  calm  life  that 
they  led  that  we  thought  it  would  be  as 
well  if  we  took  it  on  for  a  time.  White 


238          A  Man  Adrift 

men  in  Victoria  had  told  us  that  there 
were  lots  of  shacks  lying  around  that 
fellows  had  deserted  after  the  life  had 
palled  upon  them. 

It  turned  out  as  we  had  been  told.  We 
did  find  a  suitable  shack.  And  also  we 
found  quite  a  number  of  white  men  who 
were  living  with  the  Indians.  Many  of 
them  had  taken  squaws  for  their  wives. 
They  were  most  hospitable,  and  lent  us 
the  pots  and  pans  we  needed.  One  old 
man  had  lived  there  for  twenty  years. 
He  gave  the  life  big  praise.  He  said  he 
wouldn't  live  in  civilisation  now  for  any- 
thing. There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
work  all  your  days  like  a  dog,  and  die 
in  the  end  like  a  cur!  His  talk  put 
me  in  mind  of  the  talk  of  the  poor 
old  Canadian  who  was  knifed  by  the 
big  Chilkat. 

These  Si  wash  Indians  were  in  no  way 
like  the  Chilkats,  who  were  big,  strapping, 
straight  fellows,  with  savage  eyes.  The 
Si  washes  were  small,  stockily-built  men, 
with  flat,  mild  faces.  They  liked  white 
men,  and  tolerated  the  missionaries  who 


With  the  Indians        239 

gave  them  religion  mixed  with  presents. 
Some  of  them  were  the  quaintest-looking 
little  men  I  had  ever  set  eyes  upon.  With 
their  tall,  conical  hats  made  out  of  bark, 
they  looked  exactly  like  large  gnomes. 
One  could  imagine  them  stepping  up  from 
out  of  the  earth. 

Their  language  sounded  most  strange. 
It  was  an  odd,  moist  language  that  seemed 
to  be  without  consonants.  It  was  hard 
for  a  white  man  to  get  the  hang  of  it. 
When  talking  to  a  Siwash  one  had  usually 
to  fall  back  upon  Chenook.  Chenook  was 
a  polyglot  language  invented  by  the  traders 
so  that  they  might  the  more  easily  do  the 
different  tribes  of  Indians  out  of  all  they 
had.  This  language  only  contained  about 
three  hundred  words,  and  was  easy  to 
learn. 

Soon  after  we  got  fixed  up  comfortably 
in  our  shack,  all  of  us  white  men  were 
invited  by  the  Siwashes  to  assist  in  a  most 
curious  ceremony — that  is,  it  was  most 
curious  from  the  standpoint  of  practical, 
civilised  ethics. 

A  potlatch  was  given.     A  potlatch  xwas 


240          A  Man  Adrift 

a  big  feast,  and  it  was  got  up  in  the 
following  manner : — A  Siwash  would  save 
up  all  he  could  for  years.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  he  would  be  saving  up  all  his  life. 
He  would  deny  himself  everything  so  as 
to  be  able  to  gather  together  wealth  of 
all  kinds  —  rifles,  blankets,  fishing-nets, 
knives,  ammunition,  money,  and  every- 
thing. When  he  had  become  rich  he 
would  give  a  feast.  To  this  feast  every- 
one would  be  invited ;  it  mattered  not 
whether  they  were  of  the  tribe  or  not,  it 
mattered  not  whether  they  were  strangers, 
friends,  or  enemies.  Even  race  did  not 
matter.  The  stray,  passing  white  man — 
of  the  race  who  had  crushed  them  and 
robbed  them  of  their  country — was  invited 
to  the  potlatch  as  warmly  as  if  he  were 
of  the  tribe.  And  the  feast  went  on. 
Presents  were  given  to  everyone.  Every- 
one ate  and  drank  and  made  merry  till  the 
last  of  the  wealth  was  gone. 

This  was  a  potlatch. 

The  Indian  who  gave  it  had,  as  reward, 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  honoured  by 
his  tribe  as  a  good  and  generous  man. 


With  the  Indians        241 

To  give  a  big  potlatch  was  the  great 
ambition  of  the  Indian's  life,  just  as  it  is 
the  great  ambition  of  the  white  man's  life 
to  amass  gold  for  himself,  even  though  he 
knows  he  must  get  it  out  of  blood  and 
sin  and  misery. 

The  religion  of  the  Indian  taught  him 
to  amass  wealth  so  that  he  might  give  it 
to  others. 

At  this  potlatch  a  feeling  of  disgust  and 
shame  came  over  me  when  I  thought  of 
the  men  of  my  own  race  who  had  the 
presumption  to  try  and  thrust  their  religion 
on  a  race  who  possessed  a  religion  of  their 
own  that  could  impel  them  to  such  noble 
and  fine  acts.  By  the  fruit  shall  one  know 
the  tree.  By  the  acts  shall  one  know  of 
the  worth  of  religions. 

The  potlatch  was  given  in  a  great  tent 
far  away  in  the  forest,  and  Bob  and  I  got 
for  presents  blankets,  ammunition,  and 
some  things  of  which  we  were  in  need 
for  our  shack.  The  feast  lasted  four  days. 
We  had  the  finest  time  men  could  have 
—  singing  and  dancing  and  eating  and 
drinking.  We  felt  so  much  at  home. 
Q 


242          A  Man  Adrift 

This  Indian  hospitality  was  so  sincere. 
You  were  not  asked  because  they  knew 
you,  or  because  you  might  be  interesting. 
You  were  asked  because  you  were  a  human 
being. 

There  was  an  old  Indian  with  whom  I 
got  on  particularly  well.  We  both  tried 
to  tell  each  other  all  we  knew.  He  was 
a  nice  old  fellow,  with  an  intelligent  face 
and  kindly  eyes. 

When  the  potlatch  was  over  we  white 
men  went  back  to  our  shacks  on  the  edge 
of  the  forest,  and  the  old  fellow,  who  had 
lived  out  of  civilisation  for  twenty  years, 
and  who  had  had  experience  of  many  pot- 
latches,  told  me  that  Bob  and  I  ought  to 
settle  down  with  the  Indians  and  live  our 
lives  out  with  them.  Lots  of  white  men 
had  married  squaws,  he  argued — he  had 
married  one  in  fact !  —  and  they  turned 
out  to  be  the  best  wives  going.  And  the 
life  was  easy,  too !  You  did  what  you 
liked,  and  you  were  responsible  to  no  one 
but  yourself.  In  the  summer  time  you 
could  get  all  the  salmon  you  wanted,  and 
you  could  salt  enough  down  for  the  winter. 


With  the   Indians        243 

Flour  and  tobacco  were  easy  to  get,  and 
the  forest  was  full  of  game.  And  so  the 
old  man  ran  on.  The  only  drawback  was 
the  missionaries.  They  were  a  lot  of  loaf- 
ing hypocrites,  who  corrupted  the  Indians, 
and  who  tried  to  spring  a  religion  upon 
them  that  was  not  so  good  as  their 
own ! 

This  was  a  strong  opinion  for  the  old 
man  to  give  vent  to  concerning  the  mis- 
sionaries. But  I  must  say  that  experi- 
ence has  shown  me  that  the  opinion  was 
based  upon  a  correct  deduction  from 
facts. 

One  would  think  that  to  conquer  and 
subjugate  a  race  was  bad  enough,  without 
afterwards  sending  out  men  to  insult  this 
race  by  telling  them  that  their  religion 
was  a  false  one.  Besides,  even  when  looked 
at  from  the  low  standpoint  of  expediency, 
it  is  impolitic  to  allow  the  religion  of  a 
race  that  is  called  "  savage "  to  be  inter- 
fered with.  Men  will  forgive  you  for 
beating  them  in  war,  but  they  will  not 
forgive  you  for  interfering  with  their  in- 
herited ideas  of  what  is  sacred  and  holy. 


244          A,  Man  Adrift 

Missionaries    often    undo   the    doings   of 
armies  and  great  generals. 

The  old  man  who  lived  with  the  Siwashes 
was  right  in  what  he  said. 


XVIIL— A  NEW  PHASE 

IN  'Frisco  I  went  on  the  stage.  I  had 
become  tired  of  the  sea  and  the  mountains 
and  the  Indians,  and  I  thought  I  would 
like  to  try  for  awhile  the  tinsel  and  glitter 
and  ease  of  the  stage.  The  idea  first 
formed  itself  in  my  mind  in  Nanaimo, 
where  I  returned  after  living  with  the 
Siwash  Indians  several  months  at  De- 
parture Bay.  Bob  stayed  with  them.  I 
never  saw  him  again. 

In  Nanaimo  I  had  been  singing  in  the 
saloons,  and  several  people  had  said  to 
me,  "  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  'Frisco 
and  go  on  the  stage  ? " 

And  at  last  I  found  myself  at  the  foot 

of  Market    Street  in  'Frisco,  wondering. 

I  had  just  deserted  the  vessel  upon  which 

I  had  shipped  from  Nanaimo.     I  was  in 

245 


246          A  Man  Adrift 

'Frisco!  But  how  was  I  to  get  on  the 
stage  ?  That  was  the  rub.  I  possessed  a 
hardened  constitution,  a  belt  and  a  sheath 
knife,  a  used  -  up  merchant  sailor's  suit 
which  I  had  on  me,  and  coin  of  the  realm 
to  the  amount  of  four  dollars  and  a  half. 
This  was  the  extent  of  my  capital  through 
and  through.  And  I  was  brown  and  hard- 
looking  and  weather  beaten — as  tough  a 
looking  specimen  of  the  genus  homo  as 
one  could  lay  eyes  on. 

I  had  been  told  in  Nanaimo  to  go  to 
the  Tivoli  Opera  House  on  Eddy  Street, 
and  I  went  there.  It  was  eleven  in  the 
morning,  and  I  saw  the  spruce-looking 
singers  going  in  for  rehearsal.  I  watched 
them  from  across  the  road.  My  courage 
had  deserted  me,  and  I  was  afraid  to  go 
in  and  ask  to  be  taken  as  a  singer.  The 
hurry  and  bustle  of  the  town  after  the 
quietude  of  life  in  the  solitude  of  the 
mountains,  and  with  the  Indians  in  the 
forest,  confused  me.  Civilisation  was  be- 
ginning to  get  on  my  nerves. 

However,  I  plucked  up — went  in — and 
saw  the  conductor,  Billy  Furst.  He  looked 


A  New  Phase  247 

at  me  in  an  astonished  way — I  looked  so 
rough,  and  so  unlike  a  vocalist.  He  asked 
me  who  and  what  I  was,  and  where  I 
came  from.  I  told  him  that  I  had  been 
living  with  Indians  in  Vancouver  Island, 
and  that  I  had  come  down  to  San  Fran- 
cisco to  go  on  the  operatic  stage.  I  was 
tired  of  sailoring,  I  said.  He  laughed, 
but  tried  my  voice.  The  trial  satisfied 
him,  and  then  he  asked  me  if  I  could  read 
music.  I  could.  Then  he  engaged  me 
for  the  chorus. 

When  I  was  a  boy  in  the  North  of 
England  I  used  to  spend  my  sixpences  in 
going  to  the  gallery  of  the  theatre  when 
an  opera  was  on.  I  was  very  fond  of 
music.  I  had  heard  the  great  tenor, 
Joseph  Maas,  sing  in  the  different  operas. 
The  love  of  music  stimulated  me  to  try 
and  pick  up  a  knowledge  of  it.  I  managed 
to  learn  to  read  a  little  by  myself.  In  my 
knockings  around  afterwards  I  studied  it 
up  whenever  I  could.  I  used  to  buy 
vocal  scores,  and  practise  reading  at  sight. 
Thus  I  managed  to  learn  to  read  even 
difficult  music.  I  remember  when  I  worked 


248          A  Man  Adrift 

at  Shaft  19  going  to  New  York  one  pay 
day  and  buying  a  score  of  Verdi's  "  Aida," 
and  studying  it  hour  after  hour  when  I 
had  done  work.  This  ability  to  read  music 
was  the  only  thing  literate  I  had  about 
me.  It  now  served  me  in  good  stead, 
for,  in  place  of  having  to  tackle  a  lime- 
juicer — that  was  going  a  long  way  off  to 
some  vague,  distant  place — I  was  able  to 
tackle  the  tinsel  and  glitter  and  ease  of 
the  stage  at  the  munificent  salary  of  eight 
dollars  a  week.  Billy  Furst  told  me  that 
was  all  they  paid  raw  chorus  singers  who 
knew  nothing  in  particular  about  the 
stage. 

I  won't  go  into  all  that  passed  that 
memorable  morning  between  the  conductor 
and  myself  and  the  singers  who  stood 
round  wonder-struck,  gazing  on  me  as  if 
I  were  some  wild  animal.  But  I  must 
say  that  when  I  was  on  the  stage  that 
night  —  the  opera  being  given  was 
"  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  " — the  strangest 
feeling  came  over  me  that  I  ever  had 
in  my  life. 

The  transition  was  so  abrupt.     It  was 


A  New  Phase  249 

coming  right  from  the  midst  of  life  with 
the  Indians  in  Nanaimo  to  the  midst  of 
a  comic  opera  company  —  that  gaudy, 
brilliant  flower  of  civilisation.  To  say 
that  I  was  bewildered  would  be  to  put 
it  in  the  mildest  way  possible.  I  was 
stunned — knocked  out.  Imagine  it!  Here 
was  soft,  grand  music,  and  brilliant  light 
and  colour,  and  captivating,  lovely  white 
women,  who  would  every  now  and  then 
come  up  to  me  and  ask  me  how  I  liked 
living  with  the  Indians,  and  what  sort  of 
a  life  it  was.  My  story  had  circulated 
round,  and  I  was  hard-looking  and  tough- 
looking  enough  to  look  my  story. 

I  was  not  playing  as  yet,  to  be  sure. 
I  was  just  standing  in  the  wings,  wearing 
my  weather-beaten  merchant  sailor  clothes. 
Furst  thought  that  it  was  as  well  for  me 
to  come  and  see  what  the  stage  was  like 
as  soon  as  possible. 

After  all,  getting  taken  on  here  was  the 
purest  kind  of  luck.  The  odds  were  a 
thousand  to  one  against  me.  It  just 
chanced  that  the  conductor  took  an  in- 
terest in  me.  At  the  time  they  didn't 


250          A   Man  Adrift 

really  want  singers.  If  I  had  not  caught 
on  as  I  did  I  would  have  had  to  ship  out 
of  'Frisco. 

As  I  was  a  sailor  I  was  sent  up  into 
the  flies  to  help  the  fly-man  with  the  ropes 
attached  to  the  drops  and  borders  and 
curtains.  This  was  at  the  conductor's 
suggestion.  He  told  the  management 
that  I  could  put  the  time  in  like  this 
while  I  was  waiting  for  the  next  opera 
to  be  put  on.  I  don't  think  I  was  of 
much  use  to  the  fly-man,  but  I  suppose 
that  this  was  an  excuse  put  forward  by 
Furst  so  that  I  could  draw  my  salary. 
It  was  a  saving  management. 

I  found  that  I  could  live  well  in  'Frisco 
on  eight  dollars  a  week.  Food  was  cheap 
there.  For  a  quarter  one  could  get  a 
good  course  dinner  and  a  small  bottle  of 
wine,  and  not  be  charged  anything  extra 
for  coffee.  A  good  breakfast  could  be 
got  for  fifteen  cents,  and  a  room  for  two 
dollars  a  week.  The  mildness  of  the 
climate  made  it  possible  to  live  on  almost 
one  meal  a  day.  After  roughing  it  like  I 
had  been  the  change  was  delightful. 


A  New  Phase  251 

The  first  opera  that  was  put  on  was 
"  Erminie,"  a  beautiful,  bright  opera.  I 
enjoyed  the  rehearsals  very  much.  At 
first  I  was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  the 
other  chorus  singers,  but  after  a  while 
they  got  used  to  me. 

When  the  night  came  I  was  as  nervous 
as  if  I  were  going  to  play  a  big  part.  As 
I  stood  on  the  stage  the  lights  and  the 
watching  faces  behind  them  produced  a 
curious,  chilling  effect  on  me.  I  had,  of 
course,  sung  before  an  audience  before, 
but  then  I  was  near  to  them,  was  of  them. 
Here  the  people  were  so  far  away  and 
so  still  and  quiet  and  critical.  There 
seemed  to  be  an  air  of  passive  hos- 
tility about  them.  And  I  felt  as  if 
somehow  I  was  more  looked  at  than 
anyone  else. 

But  the  nervous  feeling  soon  wore  off. 
The  magic  and  vitality  of  the  music  and 
the  scene  and  the  glowing  lights  got  into 
my  blood.  The  strange  charm  of  the 
stage  thrilled  me.  That  wonderful, 
subtle,  alluring  charm !  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  had  never  really  lived  before. 


2 $2          A  Man  Adrift 

That  first  night  on  the  stage !  It  marked 
a  new  phase  in  my  life. 

My  comrades  in  the  chorus  were  made 
up  chiefly  of  Germans,  Frenchmen,  and 
Italians.  They  were  an  odd  lot  of  men — 
unlike  any  I  had  ever  come  into  contact 
with  before.  They  were,  on  the  whole, 
cultivated  and  intelligent  men. 

In  one  way  they  were  all  alike.  All  of 
them  thought  they  had  wonderful  voices 
and  just  and  true  methods  of  producing 
tone.  They  did  not  think  much  of  the 
principals  as  singers.  One  or  other  of 
them  was  always  saying  how  well  they 
could  play  the  principal  part  if  they  only 
got  a  chance  at  it.  If  they  only  got  a 
chance  at  it !  Poor  chorus  singers !  This 
attitude  of  mind  of  theirs  was  so  human 
and  pathetic.  One  of  the  hard  things  in 
life  is  to  feel  that  you  have  never  had  a 
chance  to  play  a  principal  part. 

I  did  not  stay  long  at  the  Tivoli.  But 
it  was  mainly  through  my  own  fault.  I 
was  always  quarrelling  with  the  Germans. 
The  life  I  had  led  had  made  me  over- 
ready  to  fight.  Billy  Furst,  who  was 


A  New  Phase  253 

favourably  disposed  towards  me,  inter- 
ceded several  times  with  the  manage- 
ment on  my  behalf.*  But  at  last  I  kicked 
up  too  big  a  row. 

I  got  discharged. 

After  this,  life  became  rather  hard  for 
me.  I  had  not  been  able  to  save  a  great 
deal  out  of  my  eight  dollars  a  week.  I 
could  have  gone  back  to  follow  the  sea 
again  any  time  I  wished,  but  I  had  had 
enough  of  it. 

This  was  about  the  time  I  met  Ward. 
We  were  somewhat  in  the  same  fix,  and 
we  thought  we  might  as  well  join  forces. 
It  would  be  cheaper  for  us  to  live 
together. 

We  occupied  the  same  small  room.  All 
the  details  of  how  we  managed  to  live 
would  be  hard  to  tell,  for  the  effort  we 
had  to  make  on  each  particular  day  was 
so  strenuous  that  it  blotted  out  completely 
nearly  everything  that  had  happened  on 
the  preceding  day.  It  was  each  day  for 
itself,  and  be  thankful  that  yesterday  had 
passed,  and  to-morrow  had  not  yet  come. 

Our  great  aim  in  life  was  to  get  some- 


254         A  Man  Adrift 

thing  to  eat,  and  by  hook  or  crook  find 
the  two  dollars  a  week  for  our  room. 

On  one  occasion  the  landlady  told  us 
that  we  should  have  to  get  out  on  the 
next  day.  She  was  suave,  but  firm.  She 
wanted  the  lucre.  Besides,  we  were  a 
week  behind  already,  and  she  hazarded 
the  opinion  that  we  would  soon  be 
another  week  behind,  and  then  where 
would  she  come  in  ?  All  this  and  other 
things  she  told  us  in  a  suave  but  firm 
tone.  Steel  in  velvet  is  a  bad  thing  to 
face. 

Something  had  to  be  done,  and  done 
quickly.  But  how  was  I  to  define  that 
something?  The  only  thing  that  was 
clear  in  my  mind  was  that  whatever  the 
something  was,  I  would  have  to  be  the 
one  to  do  it,  for  Ward  was  not  to  be 
depended  upon.  He  was  a  nice  fellow, 
but  he  lacked  initiative  and  vigour  of 
action.  In  tight  places  he  always  looked 
to  me. 

That  night  fortune  favoured  the  brave. 
I  borrowed  a  quarter,  and  with  it  I  won 
ten  dollars.  It  happened  like  this  : — 


A  New  Phase  255 

The  baritone  of  the  Tivoli  Opera  House 
was  shaking  dice  at  a  bar  in  Market  Street 
with  two  of  his  friends.  They  all  knew 
me,  and  when  I  sauntered  in  they  asked 
me  as  a  matter  of  course  to  have  a  drink. 
I  assented.  As  I  was  taking  the  drink  I 
stood  watching  them,  wishing  the  while 
that  I  could  take  part  in  the  game. 
Finally  I  plucked  up  and  tried  to  borrow 
a  quarter  from  one  of  them.  "  Just  for  a 
shake,"  I  put  it.  But  he  didn't  see  it. 
He  said  it  was  unlucky  to  lend  money  to 
a  man  and  then  gamble  with  him  for  it. 
The  baritone,  however,  was  not  super- 
stitious. He  lent  me  a  quarter,  and  said 
he  would  win  it  back  off  me  just  for  fun. 
But  before  he  knew  where  he  was  I  had 
won  ten  dollars  off  him.  Poor  baritone  ! 
He  tried  to  double  or  quit,  but  I  won 
every  throw.  I  had  the  luck  of  the  man 
who  is  in  his  last  ditch.  The  baritone 
had  been  paid  his  salary  that  night  at  the 
Tivoli,  but  I'd  have  won  it  all  and  every- 
thing else  in  sight.  He  stopped,  however, 
and  as  no  one  else  would  play  with  me  I 
came  away  jubilant,  blessing  the  man  who 


256          A  Man  Adrift 

had  invented  dice.  Ward  and  I  were 
saved.  How  astonished  he  was  when  I 
woke  him  up,  as  he  lay  in  the  bed  in  our 
little  room,  and  rattled  the  big  silver 
dollars  under  his  nose ! 

There  were  days  when  Ward  and  I 
abstained  from  food  altogether.  We  were 
unable  even  to  raise  the  modest  ten  cents 
that  would  procure  us  two  drinks,  and  a 
go  at  the  free-lunch  counter.  The  merits 
and  demerits  of  the  free-lunches  of  the 
neighbouring,  and  even  the  distant, 
saloons  were  well  known  to  us.  One 
was  good  for  its  soup  at  one  o'clock.  At 
another  the  corned  beef  was  fine.  And  at 
the  saloon  on  O'Farrell  Street  you  could 
eat  all  you  were  able  without  the  bar- 
tender looking  at  you  in  a  pained  and 
pointed  way.  The  food  was  plentiful, 
but  somewhat  coarse  of  quality  at  some 
places,  while  at  others  it  was  choice  but 
slight 

Of  course,  the  climate  of  California  is 
delightful.  The  air  is  clear  and  bright 
and  full  of  life.  But  Ward  and  I  couldn't 
eat  the  climate  in  our  trying,  hungry  hours. 


A  New  Phase  257 

One  evening  we  were  holding  one  of 
our  consultations.  We  were  standing  on 
the  corner  of  Eddy  and  Market  Streets. 
Our  theme  was  how  and  where  we  should 
eat,  for  we  hadn't  eaten  anything  since 
the  morning  of  the  day  before.  Our  luck 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  us  altogether. 

Different  plans  were  brought  up  by  us 
in  turn,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to  be 
worth  putting  into  execution.  There  was 
too  much  of  the  forlorn  hope  about  them. 
They  had  nearly  all  been  tried  before, 
and  there  is  such  a  thing  as  driving  the 
willing  horse  to  death.  Trees  won't  bear 
fruit  for  ever. 

At  last  I  had  an  idea !  Forlorn — but 
still  an  idea.  Ward  was  to  go  one  way, 
I  was  to  go  another  way,  and  we  were 
to  meet  in  an  hour's  time  at  the  corner 
where  we  were  standing  then.  If  either 
of  us  had  raised  anything  by  that  time 
we  were  to  go  over  and  have  a  feast  at 
the  Palace  Restaurant,  a  place  where  you 
could  get  one  helping  of  meat,  a  big  cup 
of  coffee,  and  all  "the  bread  and  butter  you 
could  eat  for  fifteen  cents.  A  meal  like 

R 


258          A  Man  Adrift 

this,  where  you  could  sit  down  and  take 
it  comfortably,  was  much  more  satisfying 
than  a  raid  on  the  best  free  lunch  counter 
in  'Frisco. 

We  parted.  What  Ward  was  going  to 
do  in  the  allotted  time,  I  forget.  My 
plan,  however,  was  to  go  and  try  and  find 
Napoleoni  Galliani — a  fine,  big  Italian — 
and  borrow  a  dollar  from  him.  I  used 
to  stand  next  to  him  when  I  sang  first 
bass  in  the  Tivoli  chorus.  But  that  was 
before  I  got  the  sack. 

In  about  an  hour's  time  I  was  back  at 
the  corner,  waiting  for  Ward  to  come  up. 
Soon,  I  saw  him  approaching.  As  he  got 
near  I  could  see  by  his  face  that  he  had 
failed.  He  had  been  unsuccessful. 

I  walked  quickly  up  to  him,  and  smiled 
in  a  large  and  joyous  sort  of  way.  "  Come 
on  ! "  I  exclaimed,  cheerily,  as  I  took  his 
arm.  "  It's  all  right.  Let's  go  over  to  the 
Palace  and  eat ! " 

Ward's  face  brightened  up  wonderfully. 
He  was  another  man.  His  step  became 
springy  and  elastic  as  he  walked  across 
Market  Street 


A  New  Phase  259 

Soon  we  were  in  the  Palace,  seated  and 
enjoying  a  good  meal.  We  had  helpings 
of  meat  and  fish  and  everything  in  sight. 
Ward  was  a  most  valiant  and  capable 
trencherman,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
simply  surpassed  himself.  He  was  a  tall, 
lanky  man,  with  a  great  natural  aptitude 
for  the  putting  away  of  food. 

At  last  the  feast  was  over,  and  I  topped 
it  off  by  ordering  two  good  cigars.  We 
would  light  them  at  the  desk  as  we  were 
going  out.  As  we  stood  up  to  go  the 
waiter  handed  me  the  bill.  I  took  the 
bill,  which  was  a  heavy  one  for  the  place, 
and  examined  it  leisurely  to  see  if  all  the 
items  were  correct. 

And  then  we  walked  easily  up  to  the 
desk  where  the  -bills  had  to  be  presented 
and  paid.  Here  I  nodded  to  Ward  and 
said,  "  Go  on.  I'll  settle  the  bill." 

Ward  walked  out  into  the  street,  and 
then  I  lit  my  cigar  at  the  little  gas-jet 
which  burned  at  the  desk.  I  did  it  very 
deliberately.  Then  I  turned  slowly  to 
the  cashier,  and  handed  him  the  bill. 
He  was  a  German,  with  fair  hair  and 


260          A  Man  Adrift 

soft  blue  eyes.  I  remember  his  eyes  well, 
because  I  looked  so  steadily  and  squarely 
into  them. 

"  Put  that  on  the  shelf  right  behind 
you  till  I  come  in  to-morrow,"  I  said  in 
an  even  voice,  pointing  to  the  bill.  I 
kept  upon  him  a  firm  and  fixed  stare. 

The  German  looked  at  the  bill,  paused, 
but  said  nothing.  Then  an  angry  look 
came  into  his  face.  He  realised  that  I 
had  come  into  the  restaurant,  and  had 
run  up  a  big  bill  without  having  the 
money  to  pay  for  it.  This  was  a  danger- 
ous thing  to  do  in  'Frisco.  A  man  ran  a 
chance  of  being  half-killed  by  the  waiters 
and  bouncers. 

I  thought  he  was  going  to  shout  for  help, 
but  always  I  kept  my  eye  on  his  eye,  and 
the  angry  look  gradually  left  his  face.  He 
never  uttered  a  word.  The  whole  thing 
didn't  take  over  a  few  seconds.  It  was  all 
over  before  the  next  customer  had  come 
up  to  the  desk. 

"  Put  that  on  the  shelf  behind  you,"  I 
repeated,  slowly.  "  There,  on  the  shelf." 
He  turned,  and  did  as  I  bid  him.  His 


A  New  Phase  261 

eye  met  mine  again.  Then  I  took  another 
light  for  my  cigar,  and  walked  out  very 
calmly  and  easily. 

I  saw  Ward.  He  had  been  looking 
through  the  window,  taking  the  whole 
thing  in.  A  look  of  horror  was  in  his 
face.  If  he  had  known  the  true  state  of 
affairs  he  would  never  have  been  able  to 
eat  a  mouthful.  "  You  had  no  money  I " 
he  gasped. 

"  No,"  I  said. 


XIX.— EARNING  THIRTY 
DOLLARS 

ANOTHER  time  I  was  going  down  Market 
Street  wondering  what  would  turn  up 
next,  when  suddenly  I  caught  sight  of 
Count  Straps  ambling  towards  me  from 
across  the  road.  He  knew  me  when  I 
was  singing  at  the  Tivoli.  The  Count 
was  a  rather  mild-looking  young  man, 
who  wore  long  hair  and  a  cowboy  hat. 
Why  he  was  called  Count  Straps  was  one 
of  the  mysteries  of  California.  Report 
had  it  that  he  had  run  through  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars  in  two  years. 

"Hello!  ""he  exclaimed,  as  he  shook 
hands  with  me.  "  Glad  to  see  you.  How 
are  you  getting  on?  Come  and  have  a 
drink." 

Not  wishing  to  hurt  his  feelings,  I  con- 
262 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     263 

sented,  and  we  turned  into  the  nearest 
saloon.  Here  a  magnificent  free  lunch 
struck  my  gaze.  I  was  glad  that  I  had 
been  considerate  enough  to  accept  the 
Count's  offer  as  I  walked  over  and  an- 
nexed three  sandwiches. 

"  Two  lagers  !  "  called  out  the  Count, 
in  a  bold  tone  to  the  bartender.  I  turned 
and  looked  at  him.  The  impressiveness 
of  his  tone  almost  made  me  think  he  had 
no  money  to  pay  for  the  order.  I  had 
seen  the  game  worked  before. 

But  happily  I  was  deceived.  The  Count 
had  not  yet  got  down  to  bed  rock. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  aboard  my  yacht," 
he  said,  as  I  finished  my  lager,  quickly. 
"  I  am  taking  some  friends  for  a  month's 
cruise  down  the  coast — to  Santa  Barbara 
and  back  again.  You've  been  a  sailor  ?  " 
He  paused  a  little  to  see  what  effect  his 
words  had  upon  me.  "  And  you  can  look 
out  for  things  generally,"  he  concluded,  as 
he  turned  and  signalled  to  the  bartender 
to  let  us  have  another  drink. 

I  reflected  rapidly  as  I  walked  over  to 
the  lunch  counter  and  annexed  more 


• 
264          A  Man  Adrift 

sandwiches.  A  month's  cruise  would  do 
me  no  harm!  "Done!"  I  exclaimed, 
"  Done !  But  is  there  anything  in  it, 
Count?  I'm  broke,  and  I  need  a  suit  of 
clothes." 

"  You  do,"  he  assented,  looking  me  up 
and  down.  "  But  no  worse  than  I  do  my- 
self." It  was  a  fact.  "But,"  he  added, 
sagely,  "when  a  man  has  no  money  he 
should  dress  well.  I  suppose  I  shall  soon 
have  to  turn  into  a  dude  myself." 

"  Oh !  "  I  put  in,  "  if  things  are  tight, 
Count,  we'll  call  the  money  end  of  it  off. 
I'll  go  with  you  anyhow.  I  think  a 
month  away  from  'Frisco  would  do  both 
myself  and  the  town  good." 

"  No,  we  won't  call  it  off,"  he  said. 
"You  can  have  thirty  dollars  at  the  end 
of  the  trip.  You  don't  need  the  money 
now.  If  you  had  it  you'd  only  spend  it. 
Thirty  dollars  at  the  end  of  the  trip. 
Will  that  do?" 

It  would  do. 

So  it  was  settled  that  I  should  turn  up 
at  the  wharf  on  the  next  day.  And  the 
Count  lending  me  a  dollar,  we  parted. 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     265 

I  was  sorry  I  was  not  able  to  share  the 
dollar  with  Ward,  but  he  had  left  'Frisco 
to  go  to  work  on  a  ranch. 

The  getting  together  of  my  belongings 
was  a  job  that  would  not  take  up  very 
much  of  my  time.  All  that  I  had  was  a 
couple  of  shirts  and  some  socks.  This 
did  not  bother  me  much,  for  it  is  not  cold 
off  the  coast  of  California.  If  it  came  on 
to  rain  I  would  borrow  oilskins  from  the 
Count  or  one  of  his  friends.  Thus  I  was 
easy  in  my  mind  as  far  as  an  outfit  was 
concerned.  The  only  thing  necessary  for 
me  to  do  was  to  create  a  bit  of  an  imposing 
effect  as  I  appeared  on  the  wharf.  With 
this  end  in  view,  I  got  my  landlady  to  lend 
me  an  old  worn  portmanteau  which  had 
lain  for  a  long  time  in  her  lumber-room. 
This  I  polished  up. 

I  was  hailed  with  a  shout  from  the 
Count  when  I  appeared  the  next  morn- 
ing. At  once  he  introduced  me  to  his 
friends,  who  were  standing  with  him  on 
the  wharf.  I  glanced  down  sideways  at 
the  portmanteau  which  was  swinging 
in  my  hard,  to  see  if  it  looked  all  right. 


2  66          A  Man  Adrift 

It  had  a  polished,  full-looking  appearance. 
I  had  helped  out  the  shirts  and  socks 
with  some  books  and  old  papers. 

I  ran  my  eye  over  his  yacht.  It  was  a 
beautiful  little  sloop-rigged  boat  of  about 
fifteen  tons.  She  looked  well  and  fit, 
and  steered  with  a  tiller.  She'll  do,  I 
thought  to  myself,  but  I  wonder  how  he 
has  grubbed  her.  The  truth  was,  this 
accessory  to  the  trip  rather  interested 
me,  for  things  of  late  had  not  been  going 
satisfactorily  with  me  in  the  eating  line. 
I  had  been  subsisting  mainly  on  hopes 
and  free  lunches. 

In  this  particular  I  found  that  the 
Count  had  excelled  himself — in  fact,  too 
much  excelled  himself,  for  he  had  got 
enough  wines  and  spirits  aboard  to  stock 
a  canteen.  It  was  all  very  well  to  be 
jovial,  I  told  him,  but  too  much  joviality 
would  get  us  on  the  rocks.  Cruising  along 
a  coast  always  wants  careful  watching. 
And,  being  in  effect  the  captain  of  the 
yacht,  I  prevailed  upon  him  to  stow 
away  nearly  all  the  drinkables  in  the 
hold 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     267 

Soon  I  found  that  I  was  not  only  cap- 
tain, but  I  was  the  crew  as  well ;  for  the 
Count's  friends  knew  nothing  about  the 
ways  of  a  boat,  while  he  himself  only 
knew  enough  to  take  risks.  How  we  got 
safely  out  of  harbour  and  through  the 
Golden  Gates  will  always  remain  a  puzzle 
to  me. 

We  were  nearly  run  down  four  or  five 
times.  On  one  occasion  we  were  within 
an  ace  of  it.  The  Count  had  taken  it 
upon  himself  to  steer  while  I  tended  jib. 
He  tried  to  cut  across  the  bows  of  a  big 
steamer  which  was  coming  head  on  to  us. 
He  would  have  made  it  all  right,  though 
it  was  risky,  but  he  let  the  yacht  get  up 
into  the  wind,  and  she  jibed  before  we 
knew  where  we  were.  The  main  boom, 
as  it  swept  round,  nearly  knocked  two  of 
his  friends  overboard. 

The  steamer  managed  to  stop  as  we 
were  right  under  her  bows  with  our  main- 
sail shaking  and  flopping.  The  mate 
leaned  over  the  rail,  and  cursed  and 
damned  the  Count  with  fluency  and 
vigour.  I  came  in  for  my  share,  too. 


268          A  Man 'Adrift 

But  the  Count  got  the  lion's  share  of 
the  benediction  because  he  was  at  the 
tiller. 

After  this  I  took  the  tiller  myself.  The 
Count's  dignity  was  injured  a  little  by  the 
variety  and  vigour  of  the  insults  and 
epithets  the  mate  had  hurled  at  him.  He 
didn't  seem  to  realise  that  we  were  precious 
lucky  to  get  off  with  only  a  left-handed 
benediction.  If  the  steamer  had  struck 
us,  he  would  certainly  have  lost  his  yacht, 
and  some  of  us  perhaps  our  lives.  When 
I  put  this  to  him  with  emphasis,  he  became 
himself  again,  did  the  Count ! 

At  last  we  were  through  the  Golden 
Gates,  and  out  into  the  free  water.  Then 
I  began  to  think  a  little  about  the  situation. 
Before  that  I  had  had  no  time  to  think 
about  anything  but  trying  to  save  the 
yacht,  and  ourselves.  I  had  passed  through 
a  succession  of  bad  quarter-hours. 

I  was  in  a  situation  at  once  ludicrous 
and  dangerous.  Here  was  I  with  five 
fellows  in  a  boat,  four  of  whom  knew 
nothing  about  sailoring,  and  the  fifth  less 
than  nothing.  And,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     269 

cerned,  I  myself  didn't  know  too  much 
about  the  handling  of  a  boat  with  a  fore 
and  aft  rig.  Besides,  I  had  hardly  any 
knowledge  of  the  coast. 

I  would  have  to  do  absolutely  all  the 
work!  None  of  them  could  be  trusted  to 
take  a  watch,  for  none  of  them  could  steer. 
And  the  adventures  the  yacht  had  gone 
through  in  getting  out  of  harbour  proved 
the  Count  to  be  a  reed  of  the  most  broken 
kind.  He  was  a  nice  fellow,  but  a  reed ! 
He  had  entered  upon  this  pleasure-trip 
depending  on  me  to  pull  it  through  safely. 
It  would  be  no  pleasure-trip  for  me.  I 
would  have  hard  work  and  anxiety  all  the 
time.  There  was  humour,  to  be  sure,  in 
the  situation  ;  but  the  humour  was  dis- 
counted by  the  danger. 

I  began  to  wish  I  had  stayed  in  San 
Francisco. 

We  ran  along  till  it  began  to  get  dark — 
I  at  the  tiller  all  the  time.  The  Count's 
four  friends  were  in  the  cabin.  They  were 
sick,  I  am  thankful  to  say.  As  for  the 
Count  himself,  he  was  on  deck,  very  much 
to  the  fore,  and  telling  me  all  sorts  of 


270          A  Man  Adrift 

things  about  nothing  in  particular.  At 
last  I  said,  "  That's  all  right."  I  hadn't 
been  listening  to  what  he  had  been  saying. 
"Tell  me,"  I  asked,  suddenly,  as  I  gave 
the  tiller  a  shove,  "  do  you  know  of  a 
place  where  we  could  run  in  for  the  night  ? 
If  I'm  to  be  the  captain  and  crew  all  rolled 
up  into  one,  I  might  as  well  have  a  little 
sleep." 

To  my  utter  amazement,  the  Count  did 
know  of  a  little  bay  where  we  could  run 
in  and  shelter.  I  had  asked  him  the 
question  more  to  shut  him  up  than  any- 
thing else,  for  I  was  irritated  right 
through.  His  being  of  any  use  at  a  pinch 
gave  me  a  decided  shock.  "Where?"  I 
asked,  incredulously.  "Off  over  behind 
that  point,"  he  replied,  indicating  the 
direction.  "  It's  a  little  bay  with  a  sandy, 
shelving  bottom.  I've  been  there  before, 
when  Cregan  was  running  the  yacht  for 
me.  We  ought  to  make  it  in  half  an 
hour  with  this  breeze." 

I  said  nothing,  but  headed  for  the 
direction  he  gave  me.  His  remembering 
it  seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  I  deter- 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     271 

mined  if  it  turned  out  all  right  to  have  a 
better  opinion  of  him  in  future. 

It  did  turn  out  all  right,  for  sure  enough 
I  ran  the  yacht  into  as  fine  a  little  anchor- 
age as  one  could  wish  for.  What  the 
name  of  the  place  was,  the  Count  was 
unable  to  tell  me.  But  that  mattered 
little.  The  fact  of  his  piloting  me  to  it  at 
all  helped  me  to  forget  his  curious  method 
of  steering  us  through  the  harbour  in  the 
morning. 

The  Count  let  down  the  jib  and  dropped 
the  anchor  as  I  ran  her  up  close  to  the 
shore.  Then  we  took  in  the  mainsail. 
Soon  after  this,  the  others  got  over  their 
sea  sickness,  and  we  all  had  a  jolly  supper 
together  in  the  cabin.  The  drinkables 
were  brought  into  requisition.  As  captain, 
the  Count  deferred  to  me  as  to  whether 
or  not  drink  should  be  allowed.  But  I 
thought  that  I  might  as  well  relax  dis- 
cipline, on  the  grounds  that  we  were  at 
anchor,  and  that  there  was  no  one  to 
discipline  but  myself.  Also,  that  as  pilot, 
the  Count  was  really  in  charge  of  the  ship. 

We  made  a  night  of  it 


A  Man  Adrift 

The  next  day  things  went  on  more 
smoothly,  but  I  had  to  do  all  the  steering 
just  the  same.  The  Count  tended  the  jib, 
and  told  me  various  stories.  He  had  been 
a  good  deal  around,  and  had  had  the 
excitement  of  getting  through  a  fortune 
in  a  hurry.  His  friends  stayed  drinking 
below  in  the  cabin  most  of  the  time. 
When  night  came  we  dropped  anchor 
again  in  another  little  bay.  The  Count 
was  at  least  a  good  pilot. 

And  we  made  another  night  of  it. 

In  time  we  worked  our  way  down  to 
Drake's  Bay.  Here  we  stayed  two  or 
three  days.  It  was  a  most  beautiful  bay 
— this  bay  where  the  English  rover  had 
cast  his  anchor  in  the  long  ago.  We  got 
into  it  in  the  morning.  The  sky  was 
gloriously  blue,  and  the  sun  was  shining  as 
it  shines  only  in  California — with  a  soft, 
golden  brilliance.  I  .was  glad  that  my 
wanderings  had  led  me  to  such  a  country. 
After  all  there  was  something  to  be  said 
in  favour  of  knocking  about  the  world. 
The  old  proverb  had  it  that  a  rolling 
stone  gathered  no  moss.  But  surely, 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars      273 

at  least,  in  the  rolling  the  stone  became 
bright ! 

We  enjoyed  ourselves  while  we  were 
here — loafing  and  lazing  around  on  shore 
in  the  sun  in  the  daytime,  and  sleeping 
aboard  the  yacht  at  night.  The  Count 
and  his  friends  were  most  jovial  and  com- 
panionable. We  got  all  the  drinkables 
out  of  the  hold,  and  stowed  them  in  the 
cabin.  The  Count  joked  me,  saying  what 
would  they  do  if  the  crew  mutinied.  I 
replied  that  if  the  crew  mutinied,  the 
captain  would  come  to  the  front  most 
effectually. 

A  few  hours  before  our  time  for  sailing 
out  of  the  bay  the  Count  made  a  proposal. 
There  were  some  cattle  scattered  over  the 
hills,  and  as  we  were  short  of  fresh  meat 
he  said  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  scout 
around  and  shoot  a  calf.  I  agreed  with 
him  that  it  was  an  excellent  idea  — 
provided  no  one  caught  us  carrying  it 
out.  Living  in  civilisation  began  to 
chasten  me.  There  was  a  flavour  of 
piracy  about  the  suggestion  reminiscent 

of  the  old  buccaneers  who  had  made  this 

s 


274          A  Man  Adrift 

part  of  the  Californian  coast  one  of  their 
stamping  grounds.  But  after  a  little  per- 
suasion I  began  to  see  the  romance  of  the 
idea.  When  you  are  amid  the  ruins  of 
Rome  you  are  naturally  apt  to  feel  some- 
what Roman !  We  started  out  on  the 
scout. 

But  no  calves  were  to  be  found.  There 
were  nothing  but  big  cows  and  bulls  or 
bullocks.  The  calves  must  have  known 
of  our  evil  intent,  and  made  themselves 
scarce.  There  was  no  use  in  killing  any- 
thing that  would  be  too  heavy  to  get 
aboard.  Besides,  the  mind  of  the  Count 
ran  on  veal.  We  had  to  give  up  the  idea. 

At  last  we  were  riding  safe  at  anchor 
before  Santa  Barbara.  We  had  got 
through  the  first  part  of  the  trip.  We 
stayed  here  some  time,  as  I  thought  the 
captain  and  crew  needed  a  rest.  Having 
to  steer  continuously  through  whole  days 
in  succession  was  rather  wearying. 

It  would  be  too  long  a  story  to  tell 
about  the  second  half  of  the  trip.  Enough 
to  say  that  I  more  than  earned  the  money 
I  was  to  get  from  Count  Straps.  As 


Earning  Thirty  Dollars     275 

before,  I  had  to  do  all  the  steering.  And 
only  that  we  were  usually  able  to  put  in 
somewhere  at  night  I  could  never  have 
pulled  through.  As  it  was,  we  almost 
went  ashore  on  the  Seal  Rocks  just  out- 
side the  harbour  of  San  Francisco.  I  had 
made  the  mistake  of  trying  to  get  in  in  the 
night-time.  The  Count  was  in  the  cabin 
drinking  with  his  friends.  They  wanted 
me  to  drink,  too,  but  I  felt  that  I  needed 
all  my  wits  about  me  to  keep  a  lookout 
and  to  manage  the  tiller.  I  had  to  leave 
it,  and  run  forward  to  tend  the  jib  when- 
ever I  put  the  boat  about.  I  got  the 
Count  up  to  pilot  me,  but  he  saw  too 
many  lights  at  once. 

When  I  heard  the  roar  of  the  breakers 
I  thought  we  were  done  for.  Drunken 
shouting  and  singing  from  the  cabin  below 
mingled  with  the  ugly,  deadly  roar  of  the 
surf.  I  was  just  beginning  to  see  the 
black  heads  of  the  rocks  in  the  moonlight. 

But  I  managed  to  sheer  away,  and, 
after  an  anxious  time,  I  had  her  through 
the  Golden  Gates. 

When  I  got  to  the  wharf,  by  good  luck 


276          A  Man  Adrift 

a  loafer  was  hanging  around.  He  grabbed 
the  line  I  threw  him,  and  hitched  it  round 
a  spile.  And  I  fervently  thanked  the 
Lord,  as  I  hauled  in  the  yacht  and  made 
her  fast.  The  trip  was  over ! 

The  next  day  I  walked  up  Market 
Street  with  my  thirty  dollars  safe  in  my 
pocket.  The  Count  had  been  as  good  as 
his  word.  And  I  went  into  the  first 
tailor's  shop  I  came  to  to  buy  myself  a 
hand-me-down  suit  of  clothes. 


XX.— LOUNGING  THROUGH 
SUNSHINE 

I  HAD  twenty  dollars  left  after  buying  the 
suit  of  clothes,  and  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  take  a  little  relaxation  after  captain- 
ing the  Count's  yacht.  I  would  like  to 
have  a  look  around  California — to  lounge 
through  sunshine. 

For  the  sunshine  of  California  is  past 
the  sunshine  of  any  other  part  of  the 
planet.  I  am  sure  that  every  globe-trotter 
and  lounger  will  agree  with  me  in  saying 
that  a  difference  in  latitude  makes  a 
corresponding  difference  in  the  quality 
of  the  sun's  rays.  I  mean  quality  as 
distinct  from  intensity.  Sol  has  varied 
moods.  In  Calcutta  he  is  piercingly  ag- 
gressive ;  in  London  he  makes  you  sad 
because  of  the  doleful  way  in  which  he 
veils  his  face  in  fog ;  in  Greenland  he  is 
277 


278          A  Man  Adrift 

pale  and  ethereal,  and  seems  as  if  he  were 
not  for  this  world. 

But  in  California  he  makes  up  for  his 
delinquencies.  He  is  in  his  best  mood. 
He  behaves  himself.  His  rays  are  at 
once  as  brilliant  as  they  are  in  Calcutta, 
and  as  mild  and  genial  in  their  effect  as 
they  are  in  England.  He  shines  with  un- 
sultry  brilliance. 

Climate  is  the  most  vital  topic  in 
California.  It  is  the  first,  second,  and 
third  thing  that  is  talked  about.  People 
who  have  hardly  been  in  the  country  a 
month  become  confirmed  climate  -ex- 
pounders. It  is  impossible  to  escape  from 
their  lucid  and  exhaustive  way  of  putting 
it.  If  you  wish  to  become  unpopular  and 
despised,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  barely 
hint  that  the  climate  is  not  quite  absolute 
perfection. 

However,  there  is  one  thing  that  the 
Californian — or,  rather,  the  San  Franciscan 
— refrains  from  praising  to  the  skies,  and 
that  is  part  of  the  climate,  too.  This 
thing  is  sand.  If  you  are  foolish  enough 
to  walk  along  Market  Street  in  the  after 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    279 

noon  when  the  kona—  or  trade  wind — is 
blowing  from  the  Pacific  Ocean,  you  will 
speedily  become  acquainted  with  this  sand. 
The  kona  gathers  it  up  from  the  neigh- 
bouring hills.  It  is  an  affectionate  and 
pleased-to-meet-you  kind  of  sand,  and  gets 
into  your  eyes,  mouth,  nostrils,  ears, 
pockets,  under  your  vest,  and  everywhere 
it  can.  After  it  has  dallied  with  you  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  you  begin  to  feel  sorry 
for  ever  having  come  to  'Frisco,  and  to 
wonder  feebly  at  the  Californian's  climate- 
praising  faculty.  When  next  you  hear  him 
losing  himself  in  a  panegyric  concerning 
the  gilded  climate,  you  will,  if  you  are 
unwise,  hazard  a  sarcastic  remark  about  the 
benefits  of  this  sand.  For  answer  the 
panegyrist  will  look  at  you  in  reproachful 
silence. 

The  Chinese  have  a  great  hold  in  San 
Francisco.  You  have  but  to  turn  up 
Clay  Street  from  Kearney  Street,  walk 
a  block  or  two,  and,  lo !  you  are  in  a 
Chinese  city.  You  are  in  the  midst  of 
the  filth,  squalor,  and  morbidness  of  the 
Mongol.  Aye,  the  Chinese  have  come 


280          A  Man  Adrift 

here  to  stay.  Here  are  their  joss-houses, 
their  theatres,  their  uncanny-looking 
shops,  and  themselves,  smoking  opium 
mixed  with  tobacco  from  queer-looking 
pipes.  Even  the  very  streets  are  as 
narrow  and  uneven  as  they  are  in  the 
lower  quarters  of  a  town  in  far-away 
China.  Little  Chinese  children,  who 
look  like  quaint,  animated  wax  dolls,  move 
around  gravely.  Their  playing  with  one 
another,  if  such  their  solemn  movements 
can  be  called,  has  all  the  gravity  of  some 
religious  ceremony. 

If  you  want  to  see  California  at  its 
best,  however,  you  must  not  stop  in  San 
Francisco.  As  I  said  before,  the  sand 
is  too  familiar  and  affectionate  for  one's 
comfort.  No,  you  must  go  south.  Here 
you  will  find  California  living  up  to  its 
reputation.  You  will  find  the  climate  as 
glorious  and  as  beautiful  as  they  say  it 
is — which  is  saying  a  great  deal.  Take 
Santa  Barbara,  for  example.  It  lies 
under  the  shadow  of  a  great  mountain. 
Stretching  out  before  it  is  the  laze  and 
heave  of  the  great  Pacific  Ocean.  The 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    281 

scenery  around  this  part  of  California 
is  the  most  wonderful  and  beautiful  in 
the  world.  It  realises  the  ideal  of  the 
greatest  descriptive  writers.  Byron  him- 
self has  not  imagined  a  land-picture  more 
magnificent.  There  is  a  Jesuit  mission- 
house  here,  two  hundred  years  old,  a  relic 
of  the  Spaniards.  As  you  approach  from 
the  seaward  great,  high,  snow-topped 
mountains  rise  and  rise  before  you.  You 
sail  on  and  on  till  at  last  a  little  town 
seems  to  come  up  out  of  the  waters.  A 
town  framed  in  the  soft  clear  fire  of  a 
sun  of  gold.  It  is  Santa  Barbara. 

Forty  miles  inland  you  come  upon  Los 
Angeles.  Before  it  is  a  desert  of  sand. 
It  is  a  strange-looking  town — a  town  that 
is  at  once  old  and  young.  In  a  way,  it 
is  a  hard-looking  town,  possessing  not 
a  tithe  of  the  beauty  of  Santa  Barbara. 
I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  why  the 
Spaniards  named  it  after  the  angels. 
They  must  have  been  possessed  of  great 
vigour  of  imagination,  for  through  the  best 
part  of  the  year  its  heat  is  not  calculated 
to  make  one  think  of  Heaven.  I  believe 


282          A  Man  Adrift 

there  is  a  fiction  abroad  to  the  effect 
that  Los  Angeles  has  everything  to  be 
desired  in  the  way  of  climate.  I  am 
sorry  to  have  to  be  heretic  enough  to 
deny  this.  The  name  of  the  town,  I 
suppose,  sounds  well  to  the  far  outsider. 
He  doesn't  know,  of  course,  that  one  of 
the  interesting  things  about  the  climate 
of  California  is  the  fact  that  it  changes 
tremendously  within  the  radius  of  a 
few  miles.  There  is  a  big  difference 
between  the  coast  and  fifty  miles 
inland. 

Yes,  I  wonder  why  the  Spaniards 
named  this  town  after  the  angels.  It 
could  hardly  be  that  the  heat  of  it  made 
them  think  of  the  fallen  angels  when  they 
were  christening  it,  for  the  Spaniards 
were  conquerors  of  the  devoutest  calibre. 
They  slew  and  prayed  and  prayed  and 
slew,  and  often,  I  presume,  they  indulged 
in  both  these  pastimes  at  one  and  the 
same  time.  Again,  it  might  have  been 
that  a  sense  of  the  humorous  was  upon 
them  when  they  were  performing  the 
town's  baptismal  rite.  But  this  is  hardly 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    283 

probable,  for  they  were  civilisers,  and, 
as  everyone  knows,  civilisers  are  an 
earnest,  stern,  unhumorous  lot.  A  joke 
must  have  a  steel  point  to  it  before  they 
can  appreciate  it.  No,  it  could  neither 
have  been  humour  nor  irreverence  that 
prompted  the  Spaniards  as  to  the  nam- 
ing of  this  place.  The  reason  is  a 
deep,  artesian  mystery,  and  life  is  too 
abrupt  to  try  and  probe  to  the  bottom 
of  it. 

This  town  is  the  home  of  the  tamale. 
For  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  never 
known  the  joy  of  eating  a  tamale  on  the 
street  at  midnight,  I  must  try  and  describe 
what  it  is  made  of,  what  it  is  like,  and 
its  effect  generally.  In  the  first  place, 
it  is  very  warm  to  the  hands,  and  looks 
like  an  overgrown  bunged-up  banana.  It 
is  made  up  of  chicken,  corn  meal,  strong 
spices,  and  other  things  known  and  un- 
known. These  are  all  boiled  and  mashed 
up  together,  and  laid  out  on  big  corn 
leaves,  which  are  rolled  into  the  shape  of 
the  aforesaid  banana,  and  tied  up  at  both 
ends.  Then  a  man  stands  on  the  corner 


284          A  Man  Adrift 

late  at  night  to  sell  them  to  the  rounders. 
He  keeps  them  steaming  in  a  big  tin 
boiler,  just  as  they  do  Indian  corn  in 
New  York.  You  give  him  a  dime,  and 
he  hands  you  out  a  tamale  on  a  fork. 
You  grab  the  tamale  off  the  fork ;  you 
strip  off  its  leaves,  and  commence  to  en- 
joy yourself,  thinking  the  while  that  there 
is  some  good  after  all  in  the  skill  and  in- 
telligence of  man.  The  effect  of  the  tamale 
on  one  is  great.  It  warms  you  up  from 
top  to  toe  like  good  old  wine,  feeds  you, 
and  makes  you  feel  that  things  are  going 
well  generally.  You  become  optimistic, 
forget  your  radical,  destructive  ideas,  and 
begin  to  think  kindly  even  of  old  time, 
moss-covered  institutions.  I  have  seen 
and  eaten  tamales  in  New  York,  but 
they  are  no  more  to  be  compared  with 
the  Los  Angeles  -  -  or  angel  —  tamales 
than — well,  words  fail  to  tell  the  differ- 
ence. 

In  this  town  you  get  good  wine  at  a  low 
price.  Of  course,  the  wine  hasn't  got  the 
ancient  and  hoary  pedigree  of  a  wine  of 
Southern  France,  but  then  I  need  hardly 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    285 

point  out  that  bad,  faked-up  wine  with 
an  alleged  ancient  pedigree  of  the  hoary 
order,  and  that  also  possesses  the 
additional  merit  of  being  tremendously 
expensive,  is  hardly  the  most  desir- 
able thing  in  the  world  to  stack  up 
against. 

After  awhile  here  one  gets  into  the 
knack  of  using  up  a  great  deal  of  time 
in  the  doing  of  nothing.  The  very  air 
seems  to  whisper  softly :  "  Never  do  to- 
day what  you  can  put  off  till  to-morrow."  I 
can  well  understand  how  the  older  inhabit- 
ants have  attained  to  such  a  degree  of  skill 
in  the  subtle  art  of  killing  time.  "  Hurry 
up,"  is  a  phrase  which  has  lost  its  meaning 
for  them.  They  are  the  masters  of  time 
instead  of  being  its  slaves.  This  is  all 
wrong,  from  a  New  York  or  London 
standpoint.  But  then  it  is  comfortable — 
and  comfort  isn't  such  a  bad  thing  after 
all. 

It  is  easy  to  know  people  who  have 
just  got  in  from  the  Eastern  States  by 
the  way  they  bustle  round  trying  to  do 
four  things  at  once.  But  in  time  they 


286          A  Man  Adrift 

become  wise,  and  calm  down.  The 
climate  soothes  them. 

The  people  plant  orange  trees  in  their 
gardens,  and  the  effect  of  the  bright 
green  leaves  and  full  golden  fruit  is  most 
beautiful. 

The  country  round  about  is  most 
favourable  to  the  cultivation  of  oranges. 
You  may  drive  along  by  orange  groves 
for  miles  and  miles.  There  are  no  fences 
to  guard  them.  Think  of  it!  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  stop  your  horse,  get  out, 
and  help  yourself.  The  proprietors  don't 
mind — the  fruit  is  so  plentiful.  During 
the  picking  season  the  tramps  come  down 
from  San  Francisco  to  help  to  gather  in 
the  crop.  Their  pay  is  a  dollar  a  day 
and  their  board.  For  once  they  for- 
swear their  allegiance  to  the  god  of 
Rest,  and  indulge  in  a  little  toil.  But 
the  toil  is  light,  and  they  go  about  it 
gently. 

Tough-looking  specimens  of  the  genus 
homo  are  these  tramps.  But  they  are  all 
healthy  and  vigorous  of  look,  and  their 
faces  are  thoughtful  of  expression.  Like 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    287 

the  Hindu  philosophers,  they  are  much 
given  to  introspection.  They  have  the 
leisure  to  discover  themselves  to  them- 
selves. The  climate  is  also  favourable 
to  their  intellectual  development.  They 
come  here  from  the  East,  where  in  the 
winter  things  in  general  are  cold  and 
unfreshing,  and  immediately  they  fall 
in  love  with  the  country.  They  are 
enthralled.  They  bless  God  for  having 
made  such  a  beautiful,  easy-to-loaf-in  land, 
and  they  become  sincere  and  ardent 
patriots  who  are  willing  to  stay  with  that 
land  till  death. 

I  would  like  to  say  a  word  as  to  the 
tramp  in  America. 

He  is  a  man  who  has  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  hard,  sustained  labouring 
work  is  bad  for  his  general  health.  A 
little  of  it  now  and  then  is  all  right ;  but 
to  keep  at  it  for  a  month  or  a  year  is  not 
to  be  thought  of. 

Reasoning  thus,  he  becomes  a  tramp. 
He  goes  from  place  to  place,  from  spot 
to  spot.  Gradually  he  develops  his  gift 
for  thinking.  He  becomes  a  full- 


288          A  Man  Adrift 

fledged  philosopher  upon  the  subject  of 
work. 

Don't  run  away  with  the  idea  that  our 
tramp  walks  very  much.  Don't  imagine 
that  hour  after  hour  he  is  climbing  up 
hill  and  down  dale.  No,  he  is  too  clever 
for  that.  And  besides,  America  is  a  big, 
wide  country.  It  abounds  in  immense 
prairies  and  chains  of  lofty  mountains. 
Walking  it  would  smack  of  the  nature  of 
toil. 

No,  our  tramp  rides.  He  presses  the 
railway  companies  into  his  service.  He 
takes  advantage  of  the  resources  of 
civilisation.  At  bottom  he  is  really  the 
most  civilised  of  persons.  Don't  forget 
this.  He  is  a  voluptuary  without 
income. 

Also  he  has  a  certain  sense  of  honesty. 
He  is  too  honest  to  rob  any  poor  man 
out  of  a  day's  work.  He  would  rather 
perish. 

He  is  not  particular  as  to  his  accom- 
modation when  he  is  taking  a  ride  on  a 
train.  He  doesn't  want  something  for 
nothing,  and  that  something  of  the  very 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    289 

best,  as  people  usually  do.  He  is  that 
rara  avis — an  uncritical  deadhead.  He 
doesn't  cry  out  for  a  stall.  No ;  a  gallery 
seat  will  do. 

He  will  take  his  ride  on  the  cow-catcher 
of  the  engine,  or  on  the  front  of  the  blind- 
baggage,  or,  if  needs  must,  in  under  the 
engine  on  the  trucks.  Or  he  will  ride  in 
a  box-car  or  on  the  bumpers.  He  is  not 
particular.  And  when  the  brakesman  tells 
him  to  get  off  he  does — when  the  train 
stops.  But  he  gets  on  again  when  the 
train  starts. 

In  common  with  all  men  who  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  govern- 
ing of  the  State,  he  takes  an  intense 
interest  in  politics.  He  picks  up  old, 
thrown-away  papers,  reads  them,  and  dis- 
cusses what  they  say  and  what  they  don't 
say  with  his  fellow  tramps.  He  is 
interested  in  the  workings  of  the  tariff, 
in  the  Chinese  question,  in  the  negro 
question.  He  would  like  to  see  America 
prosperous  and  respected  by  foreign 
countries.  He  thinks  the  Government 
ought  to  build  more  ships  and  increase 


2  go          A  Man   Adrift 

the  strength  of  the  Army.  He  is  not, 
however,  very  strong  on  the  rights  of  the 
working  man.  The  working  man  is 
always  striking  or  growling  about  the 
rights  of  labour.  This  doesn't  appeal  to 
the  tramp,  for  deep  continuous  thought 
has  shown  him  that  in  the  nature  of  things 
labour  can  have  no  rights.  Either  a  man 
must  work  and  shut  up  about  it,  or  he 
must  avoid  working  altogether. 

The  people  who  win  the  tramp's  admira- 
tion are  the  Senators  and  Congressmen, 
who  talk  a  lot  about  nothing,  live  well, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  do  nothing.  He 
also  thinks  approvingly  of  the  Commis- 
sioners who  go  abroad  to  settle  things. 
He  feels  there  is  a  strong  tie  between 
these  people  and  himself.  They  do  the 
same  thing  he  does,  only  very  much 
better.  They  excel  in  the  fine  art  of 
sitting  down  to  settle  things.  And,  what 
is  more  to  the  point,  they  make  it 

pay- 
Occasionally  the  tramp  becomes  weak 

enough  to  do  some  work.  But  this  weak- 
ness doesn't  last  long.  He  soon  resumes 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    291 

his  wonted  vigour.  The  work,  however, 
is  usually  of  a  light  and  pleasant  nature. 
Peach-picking  is  what  he  favours  most. 
This  work  is  easy  and  healthy  and  shady, 
and  the  peaches  are  delicious  of  aroma 
and  taste.  The  season  lasts  six  weeks. 
He  gets  something  a  day  and  his  board, 
with  the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  the  barn 
in  the  hay. 

The  tramp's  real  means  of  livelihood 
is  begging.  He  can  tell  at  a  glance  a 
house  where  he  will  get  a  "hand-out." 
A  "  hand-out"  is  a  parcel  of  food,  which 
derives  its  name  from  being  handed  out 
through  a  half-opened  door. 

Yes,  the  tramp  develops  into  a  skilful 
and  expert  beggar.  Some  people  may 
think  that  there  is  no  art  in  begging,  but 
if  they  do  they  are  much  mistaken.  It 
takes  a  clever  man  to  know  what  stranger 
to  ask  for  money.  As  he  goes  along  the 
street  he  must  be  able  to  single  out  at  a 
glance  the  giving  type  of  man  ;  for,  as  the 
tramp  will  inform  you,  there  are  really  in 
existence  men  who  like  to  give  money  to 
anyone  who  asks  for  it.  They  are  rare, 


292          A  Man  Adrift 

but  they  do  exist.  The  thing  is  to  be 
able  to  single  out  this  man,  and  then  to 
know  if  he  has  money  in  his  pocket,  and 
if  he  be  in  the  right  mood.  To  do  this 
requires  genius. 

But  let  us  go  back  to  the  land  of  sun- 
shine : — 

San  Diego  lies  to  the  south  of  Los 
Angeles,  and  is  quite  close  to  the  frontier 
line  between  Mexico  and  the  United 
States — some  six  or  eight  miles  from  it. 
Here  the  climate  is  perfection.  The 
temperature  is  pretty  nearly  the  same  all 
the  year  round — between  seventy-five  and 
eighty  degrees  Fahrenheit.  It  is  a  fine 
place  for  invalids,  who  travel  to  it  from 
all  parts  of  the  world.  Its  air  is  at  once 
bracing  and  soft.  Behind  it,  in  the 
distance,  stand  great  mountains.  Before 
it  stretches  the  ocean.  On  Coronado 
Beach  —  a  little  way  from  the  town  — 
stands  the  Coronado  Hotel.  It  is  an 
immense  hotel,  and  well  appointed.  Only 
the  wealthiest  of  travellers  may  put  up 
there.  I  only  gazed  at  it. 

The  older  part  of  this  town   which  was 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    293 

built  by  the  Mexicans,  is  very  picturesque. 
The  houses  are  of  adobe,  and  often  are 
quaintly  beautiful.  Here  live  the  Mexi- 
can part  of  the  population.  They  have 
coppery-coloured,  swarthy  faces,  and  black 
eyes.  They  have  a  mixture  of  Spanish 
and  Indian  blood  in  their  veins.  The 
women  often  are  beautiful,  but  they  age 
early.  They  are  old  at  twenty  -  five. 
When  a  Mexican  woman  is  beautiful,  she 
is  beautiful  indeed — magnetic,  flashing  of 
eye,  and  finely  formed. 

I  remember  the  morning  I  first  lounged 
into  Santa  Cruz.  This  is  another  little 
gem  of  a  town  on  the  southern  coast.  It 
is  so  cool  and  green  and  beautiful.  From 
here  I  went  to  see  the  Big  Trees.  They 
were  six  miles  away.  The  way  to  them 
was  over  a  stage  road  built  along 
the  side  of  a  great  gorge  which  cuts 
through  the  mountains.  The  scenery 
here  is  wild  and  grand.  And  gloriously 
coloured. 

The  magnificence  of  the  trees  is  hardly 
to  be  described.  They  are  stupendous — 
immense  of  girth,  and  running  up  straight 


294          A.  Man  Adrift 

for  hundreds  of  feet.  One  of  them  has  a 
great  hole  cut  through  the  base  of  its 
trunk  through  which  the'  stage  -  coach 
passes.  This  will  give  some  idea  of  their 
vastness.  They  are  all  nearly  of  the  same 
size.  The  effect  is  awesome.  You  feel  so 
puny  standing  by  the  side  of  a  tremendous 
silent  Titan  that  has  lived  through  the 
centuries. 

There  is  a  little  town  not  very  far  from 
here  called  San  Bueneventura.  It  also  is 
built  right  on  the  edge  of  the  ocean.  At 
this  point  the  waves  thunder  in  with  great 
force,  because  of  a  reef  that  lies  some 
distance  out.  You  can  hear  the  roar  of 
these  waves  miles  away.  In  the  town, 
where  all  is  calm  and  clear  and  bright, 
this  roaring,  as  of  a  constant,  wild  storm, 
has  an  odd  effect.  There  is  nothing  like 
it  along  the  whole  coast  of  California. 
The  Mexicans  have  a  superstition  con- 
cerning it.  They  say  that  God  has  caused 
the  waves  to  thunder  there  in  wrath 
because  of  the  desecration  of  their  land 
by  the  Gringos,  or  Americanos. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  the  Jesuits  built 


Lounging  through  Sunshine    295 

in  this  town  a  church,  which  is  there  still. 
It  is  long  and  low,  and  dark-looking,  and 
is  surmounted  by  a  great  wooden  cross. 
In  it  the  Jesuits  converted  and  baptized 
the  Indians  after  the  Spaniards  had 
crushed  them  into  subjection.  When  the 
soldiers  had  subjected  the  body,  the  priests 
thought  it  well  to  subject  the  soul.  The 
roof  of  the  church  is  low  and  heavily 
rafted.  The  rude  wooden  benches  where- 
on the  Indians  sat  are  still  there.  Before 
the  small,  simple  altar  a  light  burns.  It 
is  the  sanctuary  light.  It  has  been  burn- 
ing there  all  through  these  two  hundred 
years.  Not  once  has  it  been  out.  It 
is  a  flame  small  and  blue  and  steady. 
Typical  of  the  indomitableness,  and  slow, 
never-dying  persistence  of  the  Jesuit. 
Before  the  altar  the  Virgin  stands.  In 
her  arms  she  holds  the  Babe. 

San  Luis  Obispo  is  about  twenty  miles 
inland  from  San  Bueneventura.  I  think 
this  is  the  most  Mexican  in  appearance 
of  all  the  towns  in  Southern  California. 
Some  of  the  larger  houses  have  curious 
inner  courtyards,  roofed  over  with  glass. 


296          A  Man  Adrift 

In  them  the  Mexicans  used  to  sit  and 
chat  and  smoke  cigarettos.  The  idea  of 
building  these  glass-roofed  courtyards  was 
borrowed  in  the  long  ago  from  the  Aztecs, 
themselves  a  mighty  and  powerful  race 
whom  Cortes  conquered.  The  ease  with 
which  the  Spaniards  conquered  the  Aztecs 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  they  believed  the 
white  men  to  be  the  sons  of  their  god, 
Quetzalcoatl.  Quetzalcoatl  was  really  a 
man  who  dwelt  with  the  Aztecs,  probably 
as  far  back  as  the  birth  of  Christ.  He 
taught  them  useful  arts,  and  when  he  left 
them  he  promised  to  come  back  again 
with  a  numerous  progeny.  The  remem- 
brance of  this  promise  was  kept  alive  by 
tradition,  just  as  the  Jews  keep  alive 
their  belief  in  the  coming  of  a  Messiah. 
Quetzalcoatl  was  a  white  man — probably 
from  Europe.  So  goes  the  old  legend. 
When  the  Spaniards  came  the  Aztecs 
thought  that  their  god  had  kept  his 
promise,  and  they  welcomed  them.  It 
was  only  when  the  white  men  had  com- 
mitted unheard-of  atrocities  and  treacheries 
that  the  Aztecs  thought  of  trying  to  repel 


Lounging  through  Sunshine  297 

them.     But   even   then   the   Aztecs  were 

demoralised.       They   thought    they  were 

fighting     against      the      sons      of  their 
god. 


XXL— OPERATIC  FORAGERS 

THERE  was  a  certain  comic  opera  com- 
pany that  used  to  go  on  tour  through 
California  and  Oregon,  and  round  the 
Pacific  Slope  generally.  The  manager 
of  this  company  was  one  of  the  nicest 
men  I  have  ever  met.  True,  he  was  a 
little  shy  about  the  paying  of  salaries, 
but  for  all  that  his  heart  was  in  the  right 
place.  A  manager  can't  pay  out  what 
doesn't  come  in.  And  I  must  say  that 
when  he  was  telling  one  on  salary  day 
of  the  wonderful  things  that  would  happen 
the  week  after — in  the  way  of  finance — 
he  did  it  in  a  most  pleasing  and  artistic 
way. 

Everyone    liked    him.      And    I    have 
heard  people  say  that  they  would  almost 
as  soon   work  for  him   without  salary  as 
298 


Operatic   Foragers         299 

for  some  managers  with  salary.  I  can't 
say  that  my  devotion  to  him  was  as  pro- 
nounced as  this,  but  still  it  was  pronounced. 

It  was  when  his  company  had  got  into 
a  hole  that  he  showed  forth  in  his  best 
form.  Say  if  he  were  unable  to  pay  their 
hotel  bills,  or  unable  to  raise  the  fare  to 
go  to  the  next  stand.  Then  his  genius 
would  bud  and  blossom  forth.  He  would 
win  over  the  hotel-keeper  to  let  the  trunks 
go,  or  he  would  deftly  borrow  five  hundred 
or  a  thousand  dollars  from  an  almost  com- 
plete stranger. 

He  was  a  man  with  the  true  impres- 
ario's gift. 

After  I  had  got  back  to  'Frisco  from 
having  an  easy  lounge  through  California, 
I  was  engaged  by  this  genial  manager  to 
sing  first  bass  in  his  chorus  and  to  play 
small  parts  when  called  upon.  The 
salary  was  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  I 
had  heard,  of  course,  that  the  ghost 
was  decrepit,  and  not  often  able  to 
walk,  but  this  weighed  little  with  me 
when  once  I  came  under  the  spell  of 
the  manager's  magnetism.  He  described 


300          A  Man  Adrift 

the  beauties  of  the  country  through  which 
his  company  was  to  tour  in  a  fine  guide- 
book manner,  and  he  let  me  have  five 
dollars  in  advance. 

We  opened  in 'Los  Angeles.  Here  we 
played  for  a  month  in  the  Pavilion.  I 
believe  the  first  opera  that  was  put  on 
was  "  Der  Fledermaus."  After  that  fol- 
lowed "  Boccacio "  and  "  The  Beggar 
Student "  and  several  other  comic  operas. 
We  finished  with  "The  Pirates  of  Pen- 


zance." 


In  Los  Angeles  the  ghost  walked — we 
were  paid  our  wages.  And  when  the 
month  was  over  the  landlord  of  the  hotel 
where  the  bulk  of  us  were  staying  gave 
a  champagne  supper  to  the  whole  of  the 
company.  I  will  never  forget  that  supper. 
I  was  sitting  next  to  the  prima  donna, 
and  I  was  astounded  to  hear  her  tell  the 
waiter  that  she  wanted  beer  instead  of 
champagne.  I  thought  that  she  must  be 
a  very  democratic  prima  donna  indeed, 
but  I  afterwards  found  out  that  the  worst 
beer  is  better  than  the  best  Californian 
champagne. 


Operatic   Foragers         301 

After  we  left  Los  Angeles  we  left  home, 
for  in  no  other  town  did  we  even  make 
our  expenses.  The  manager  was  put 
to  the  necessity  of  showing  forth  in  his 
best  form  the  whole  time.  He  was  doing 
nothing  but  borrowing  money  and  sooth- 
ing the  wrath  of  hotel-keepers.  How  he 
kept  it  up  was  a  mystery. 

At  last,  however,  it  struck  him  that 
the  company  needed  a  rest,  and  he 
managed  to  get  us  to  Santa  Barbara, 
where  he  closed  the  season.  His  plan, 
he  explained,  was  to  have  the  men  of  the 
company  camp  out  in  the  mountains  till 
he  could  raise  enough  money  to  open  up 
the  season  again. 

So  we  went  out  and  camped  in  the 
Santa  Ynez  Mountains. 

One  morning,  in  the  mountains,  after 
a  scant  breakfast,  we  sat  around,  dis- 
cussing and  wondering  what  we  would 
have  to  do  next.  Our  position  was 
serious.  We  had  run  out  of  food.  True, 
we  had  rifles  and  ammunition,  and  there 
was  plenty  of  game  around  us,  but  we 
had  only  one  decent  shot  in  the  crowd, 


3oa          A  Man  Adrift 

and  he  had  had  bad  luck.  The  rest 
could  hardly  have  hit  a  barn  a 
hundred  yards  off.  We  were  a  sad  lot 
generally. 

The  ladies  of  the  company  were  stay- 
ing at  a  cheap  hotel  in  Santa  Barbara. 
Santa  Barbara  lay  forty  miles  to  the  west, 
right  on  the  coast.  The  way  to  it  lay 
across  a  trail  over  parts  of  which  a  mule 
could  not  travel.  Thus  we  had  come 
away  with  comparatively  little  food. 
Alas,  we  had  depended  on  our  skill 
as  hunters. 

We  were  bad  fishermen  also.  The 
trout  in  the  neighbouring  stream  would 
simply  have  nothing  to  say  to  us.  So 
here  we  were  in  the  midst  of  plenty  with 
no  hands  to  grasp  it. 

As  we  were  arguing,  a  luminous  idea 
suddenly  broke  in  upon  me.  "Why  not 
kill  a  pig  ?  "  I  suggested.  The  suggestion 
was  received  with  horror,  for  the  pig  I 
referred  to  was  one  of  a  drove  of  pigs 
that  belonged  to  a  rancher  who  allowed 
them  to  run  in  the  mountains.  No !  Such 
a  thing  could  not  be  thought  of!  It  would 


Operatic   Foragers         303 

be  nothing  short  of  robbery !  Daylight 
robbery ! 

But  I  pointed  out  that  we  might  per- 
petrate the  deed  at  night  or  at  dusk, 
thereby  running  less  risk  of  having  any 
of  the  rancher's  men  see  us.  If  we  were 
caught  doing  it,  of  course  it  would  be 
rather  bad.  We  might  get  shot,  or  at 
least  arrested  and  taken  to  prison  to 
Santa  Barbara.  To  be  shot  would  be  our 
most  likely  fate,  though ;  for  the  men 
around  a  ranch  in  California  were  apt  to 
be  both  good  marksmen  and  believers 
in  quick  justice.  The  thing  for  us  to  do 
was  to  commit  the  deed  expeditiously  at 
dusk.  I  laid  emphasis  upon  this  point. 

After  a  little  while  I  could  see  by  their 
faces  that  my  suggestion  had  germinated, 
and,  in  fact,  was  budding  forth  vigorously 
in  their  minds.  The  seed  had  fallen  on 
good  ground.  They  were  short  of  food, 
and  they  were  bad  hunters ;  and  one 
could  go  right  up  and  interview  a  pig 
without  the  introduction  of  a  couple  of 
hours'  stalking.  The  only  difficulty  was 
the  barrier  raised  up  in  their  minds  by 


304          A  Man  Adrift 

the  sensitiveness  of  their  ethics.  But  this 
was  soon  surmounted  by  their  need. 
Hunger  and  ethics  soon  part  company. 

When  dusk  came  Charlie  Johnson  and 
I  sallied  forth.  All  day  long  we  had 
been  thinking  of  roast  pig,  and  now  was 
coming  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Our 
plan  was  to  get  as  close  to  a  pig  as 
possible,  shoot  it,  prepare  it  quickly,  and 
bury  the  offal  so  as  to  leave  no  trace.  I 
had  a  spade,  and  Charlie  had  a  rifle.  If 
a  ranchman  heard  the  shot,  we  based  our 
chances  of  safety  upon  the  probability  of 
his  thinking  that  we  were  hunting. 

The  principal  tenor  of  the  company, 
who,  needless  to  say,  was  stout,  had  given 
us  a  caution  as  to  the  size  of  the  pig  we 
were  to  select.  A  smallish  one,  he  said, 
not  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
in  weight.  I  didn't  exactly  see  at  the 
time  his  reason  for  being  so  particular, 
but  afterwards  it  dawned  upon  me. 

Soon  Charlie  and  I  sighted  what  we 
took  to  be  a  suitable  pig,  quite  after 
the  stout  tenor's  fancy.  It  was  standing 
near  five  or  six  others,  and  Charlie  knelt 


Operatic   Foragers         305 

down  when  near  enough,  took  aim,  and 
blazed  away.  It  dropped  with  a  bullet 
behind  its  ear.  I  rushed  forward,  and 
grabbed  it  by  one  of  its  forelegs  as  it 
lay  struggling  furiously.  It  was  horribly 
strong,  and  it  knocked  me  about  a  good 
deal,  but  Charlie  soon  finished  it  with 
his  knife.  It  was  then  we  saw  that  we 
had  killed  a  bigger  pig  than  we  intended. 
The  dusk  had  fallen  upon  us  too  rapidly. 

After  we  had  prepared  it  and  buried 
the  evidences  of  our  deed,  we  tied  its 
legs  together,  and  cut  down  the  limb 
of  a  small  tree.  This  we  passed  through 
the  legs.  Then  we  lifted  up  the  carcase 
and  carried  it.  Charlie  went  first,  with 
one  end  of  the  tree  limb  on  his  right 
shoulder,  while  I  had  the  other  end  of  it 
on  my  left  shoulder.  But  the  pig  was 
so  heavy  that  we  could  go  no  more  than 
a  few  yards  before  we  had  to  put  it  down. 
Plainly,  we  had  made  a  bad  mistake  as 
to  the  size. 

By  this  time  night  was  upon  us,  and 
we  were  getting  nervous.  There  was  a 
chance  any  minute  of  our  being  fired 
u 


306          A  Man  Adrift 

upon  '  or  challenged  by  someone.  And 
our  camp  was  nearly  a  mile  away.  The 
moon  was  also  coming  up  clear  and  strong. 
Hardly  the  best  thing  for  us !  We  would 
never  be  able  to  get  to  camp  with  our 
load.  What  were  we  to  do? 

Suddenly  I  said  to  Charlie : 

"Look  here,  old  man!  We  are  two 
numbskulls!  Here  are  we  taking  all  the 
risk  in  this  business  while  the  other  fellows 
are  luxuriously  waiting  in  camp  to  begin 
the  feast  when  we  arrive.  They  take  no 
risk,  but  they  will  eat  as  much  of  it  as  we 
shall.  Perhaps  more." 

Charlie  mopped  his  forehead.  "You're 
right,"  he  said.  "  What  should  we  do  ?  " 

"  Do?  Why,  let  us  leave  the  pig  here, 
go  back  to  camp,  and  make  all  hands  help 
to  carry  it  in  turn.  If  they  eat,  they  must 
share  the  risk." 

So  back  to  camp  we  went.  We  stated 
the  case  to  them  as  they  stood  around  the 
fire.  There  were  a  great  many  blank 
looks.  Nobody  seemed  to  like  the  idea. 
The  feast  was  all  right,  but  the  getting 
of  it  bothered  them.  The  stout  tenor  was 


Operatic  Foragers         307 

especially  indignant.  His  idea  had  been 
for  us  to  kill  a  small  pig,  so  that  we  might 
carry  it  to  camp  ourselves.  If  we  were 
shot,  it  wouldn't  have  been  his  funeral. 
He  had  foreseen  what  would  happen  if  we 
killed  a  big  one. 

At  last  the  logic  of  hunger  proved  to 
them  that  the  right  thing  to  do  was  to 
come  and  take  their  chance.  So  we  all 
left  camp  in  a  body.  The  stout  tenor 
wanted  to  stay  behind,  but  I  said  a  few 
forcible  things  to  him. 

In  about  an  hour's  time  we  were  back 
with  the  pig.  No  accident  had  occurred. 
No  prying  ranchman  had  been  around. 
Everything  had  been  serene.  As  serene 
as  the  moon ! 

Soon  a  delicious  odour  was  arising. 
And  then  we  had  a  feast! 


XXII.— HOW  I  "RAN  PROPS" 

WHILST  I  was  in  'Frisco  I  had  the  honour 
of  suping  with  Sarah  Bernhardt.  She 
played  a  season  at  the  Baldwin  Theatre, 
and  I,  along  with  others,  got  the  princely 
allowance  of  fifty  cents,  a  night  for  sup- 
porting her  in  "  Theodora."  We  played 
slaves  and  nobles  and  gladiators  and  circus- 
riders  and  other  things  Roman.  I  re- 
member on  one  occasion  having  the  felicity 
of  standing  quite  near  to  the  divine  Sarah 
in  the  right  second  entrance.  I  was 
dressed  up  as  a  slave,  and  was  getting 
ready  to  follow  some  Roman  nobles  who 
were  marching  on  to  the  stage  as  if  they 
owned  it.  I  looked  quite  critically  at  the 
great  actress  to  see  if  she  were  as  thin  as 
report  said.  She  was  not.  I  suppose  she 
had  picked  up  somewhat. 
308 


How  I  "  Ran  Props  '      309 

This  was  after  I  had  got  to  'Frisco  from 
touring  through  California  with  the  opera 
company.  I  had  no  money,  for  the  genial 
manager  had  told  me  in  his  most  tactful 
manner  that  he  would  pay  me  what  he 
owed  me  when  things  looked  up  a  little. 
Thus  I  had  to  take  on  suping. 

Soon  after  this  I  got  an  engagement  to 
sing  ballads  in  the  Eureka  Music  Hall 
on  Kearney  Street.  They  were  rather 
generous  to  me  here  in  the  way  of  ad- 
vertisement, for  on  one  side  of  the  pro- 
gramme I  was  announced  as  the  "  Cele- 
brated Tenor,"  while  on  the  other  side  I 
was  announced  as  the  "  Celebrated  Bari- 
tone." Here  I  sang  for  a  month. 

When  I  left  I  was  at  once  engaged 
by  a  third  -  rate  actor  to  play  heavy 
business  for  him — villains,  and  such  like. 
This  actor  wanted  to  star  through  the 
country,  for  he  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  was  great.  This  is  a  con- 
clusion that  all  actors  arrive  at. 

He  was  rather  a  character,  this  actor. 
He  had  the  keenest  sense  of  self-value  I 
have  ever  met  in  anyone.  As  he  deftly 


310          A  Man  Adrift 

and  pointedly  put  it :  "  If  I  only  get  a 
chance  I'll  paralyse  the  earth." 

With  sorrow  I  am  compelled  to  state 
that  I  did  not  suit  the  actor's  requirements. 
I  looked  the  part  of  a  villain,  he  averred, 
and  I  read  my  lines  like  one,  but — well, 
it  was  my  walk  he  objected  to.  Alas,  I 
still  had  the  walk  of  a  sailor.  The  roll  of 
the  ship  had  not  yet  got  out  of  my  gait. 
And  a  stage  villain  had,  above  all,  to  have 
a  steady  and  commanding  walk.  I  lost 
the  engagement. 

However,  I  was  luckier  with  Jim  Wessels, 
the  melodramatic  actor.  Whenever  Jim 
spoke  the  scenes  trembled.  He  was  what 
was  known  as  the  scene-chewing  type  of 
actor.  He  went  in  for  producing  unsubtle, 
broad  effects. 

He  gave  me  a  part  in  "  The  Danites," 
not  because  I  could  act,  but  because  I  had 
a  good  loud  voice.  The  man  who  had 
been  playing  the  part  was  most  artistic 
in  his  make-up  and  conception  of  the  char- 
acter, but  his  voice  could  hardly  be  heard 
past  the  footlights.  At  a  pinch  I  could 
be  heard  outside  the  theatre,  and  though 


How  I  "  Ran  Props'      311 

I  was  atrociously  bad  as  an  actor  I  was 
given  the  part  to  play. 

The  next  thing  I  did  was  to  sing  chorus 
in  the  Grand  Opera  House  on  Mission 
Street.  Campanini  came  to  San  Francisco 
to  put  on  a  series  of  grand  operas.  He 
had  with  him  Scalchi,  Repetto,  Baldini, 
Antonio  Galassi,  and  other  artistes,  in- 
cluding Gore,  the  conductor  from  La  Scala. 

We — the  chorus  singers — had  to  rehearse 
for  a  month  before  the  operas  were  actually 
put  on,  and  this  was  a  trying  time  for  us, 
for  we  were  nearly  all  hard  up.  We  were 
paid  nothing  for  the  rehearsals. 

The  first  opera,  "  Rigoletto,"  was  a  fiasco 
as  far  as  the  chorus  was  concerned.  In 
the  opening  chorus  Gore  did  not  give  us 
the  sign  to  attack,  and  the  result  was  that 
not  one  of  us  opened  our  mouths  to  sing. 
We  looked  like  dummies — neither  useful 
nor  ornamental.  When  the  curtain  went 
down  on  the  first  act  Galassi  turned  round 
to  us  fiercely  and  shouted,  "  What  for  you 
no  cantante  ?  "  As  his  eye  seemed  to  meet 
mine,  I  shouted  back  at  him,  "  Why  didn't 
Gore  give  us  the  cue?"  Galassi  was  a 


312          A  Man  Adrift 

towering  big  man,  and  he  looked  as  if  he 
were  going  to  come  for  me. 

It  turned  out  afterwards  that  Gore  for- 
got himself,  and  thought  he  was  conduct- 
ing at  La  Scala.  We  were  told  that  there 
a  conductor  never  gives  the  sign  to  the 
chorus  to  attack.  They  are  supposed  to 
know  when  to  come  in  themselves.  This 
plan,  of  course,  is  all  right  when  the  chorus 
has  had  a  sufficient  number  of  rehearsals. 

All  I  got  out  of  this  engagement  was 
fifteen  dollars. 

About  this  time  the  climate  of  California 
lost  for  me  its  rare  and  subtle  beauty.  I 
longed  to  go  Eastward.  But  how?  I 
was  thirty-six  hundred  miles  away  from 
New  York.  And  big  obstacles  met  me  at 
every  point,  for  very  few  companies  that 
left  'Frisco  for  New  York  ever  wanted 
people.  It  looked  as  though  it  were  my 
fate  to  become  a  permanent  Californian, 
when  an  engagement  was  offered  me.  It 
was  to  sing  in  a  quartette  at  the  Alcazar 
Theatre,  where  Ned  Harrigan,  a  famous 
exponent  of  character  -  comedy,  had  just 
arrived  from  New  York  to  put  on  his  own 


How  I  cc  Ran  Props  *     313 

pieces.  He  wanted  singers,  and  I  was 
engaged. 

During  his  stay  in  the  town,  which 
lasted  eight  weeks,  he  took  a  liking  to 
me,  and  his  manager  intimated  to  me  that 
I  could  go  with  the  company,  if  I  wished, 
as  Harrigan  was  going  to  play  his  way 
across  the  Continent  to  New  York.  A 
thrill  of  delight  suffused  me.  But,  alas ! 
there  was  a  codicil,  so  to  speak,  to  the 
contract.  It  was  this:  I  had  to  "run 
props."  At  that  time  I  had  only  a  vague 
notion  of  what  running  props  meant,  but 
an  instinct  told  me  that  it  was  something 
with  very  little  of  a  soft  snap  in  it.  My 
ardour  was  dampened  considerably,  but  I 
had  had  a  surfeit  of  the  gilded  climate, 
and  therefore  decided  to  accept  this  iron- 
clad engagement. 

Oh,  if  I  had  only  known  then  what  I 
knew  afterwards,  I  would  have  stayed  in 
California  till  the  golden  sun  had  covered 
me  with  gilt  before  I  would  have  taken 
such  an  engagement.  It  was  only  by  a 
miracle  that  I  ever  got  to  New  York.  A 
hundred  times  I  was  on  the  point  of  leav- 


314          A  Man  Adrift 

ing,  owing  to  the  nature  of  my  work.  It 
was,  indeed,  an  unthankful,  an  ungrateful, 
and  a  tough  task.  I  became  everyone's 
bitter  foe.  Fellows  who  hobnobbed  with 
me,  and  who  drank  my  beer  in  'Frisco, 
now  looked  upon  me  as  their  natural 
enemy. 

The  company  consisted  of  twenty -six 
people,  and  in  addition  to  my  duties  as  a 
property-man,  I  had  to  look  after  all  the 
baggage  and  scenery,  for  we  carried  no 
carpenters.  We  would  get  into  a  town, 
say,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
stage-manager — who,  by  the  way,  was  a 
very  good  fellow  named  Charles — and  I 
would  go  together  and  get  a  stiff  drink  to 
prepare  us  for  the  day's  ordeal,  while  the 
star  would  immediately  hie  him  to  the 
hotel  to  sleep.  The  rest  of  the  company 
would  either  follow  his  example,  or  stand 
around  on  the  principal  street  mashing  the 
girls.  Of  course,  as  Charles  and  I  were 
but  human,  we  naturally  envied  the  easy 
time  they  had  compared  to  ours,  and,  as 
they  invariably  grumbled  at  us  in  the  night 
time  when  we  were  running  the  scenes 


How  I     'Ran  Props'      315 

and  properties  of  the  performance,  we 
anathematised  them  roundly  over  our  fra- 
ternal drinks.  After  we  had  quenched 
our  thirst  and  eased  our  feelings,  we  would 
go  to  the  theatre,  or  rather  hall,  where  I 
would  interview  the  property-man,  while 
the  indomitable  Charles  interviewed  the 
proprietor  or  carpenter,  or  whatever  he 
was,  about  the  scenes  we  had  to  use  that 
night.  After  Charles  had  seen  that  sapient 
individual,  he  would  mark  off  the  dressing- 
rooms. 

The  party  whom  I  interviewed  was 
usually  a  man  or  boy  who  worked  at  some 
other  business,  and  who  got  off  on  that 
particular  day  to  help  me  to  get  the 
properties.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  his 
lack  of  knowledge  concerning  things 
theatrical  would  fill  libraries.  He  would 
try  to  make  up  for  this  lack  by  boundless 
enthusiasm  for  the  stage.  I  would  give 
him  a  list  of  the  indispensable  properties, 
but,  alas !  not  more  than  half  of  them 
showed  up  when  the  shades  of  night  fell, 
and  I  alone  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the 
star's  fury  when  he  found  them  missing. 


316          A  Man  Adrift 

After  Charles  and  I  had  got  through 
our  interviewing  we  would  go  out  and  get 
a  little  more  courage,  and  await  develop- 
ments. They  would  come  in  the  shape 
of  the  gentry  we  had  just  interviewed. 
They  expected  us  to  treat  them.  I  need 
hardly  say  that  the  management  never 
allowed  us  treating  expenses. 

In  time  night  would  come,  and  then 
would  come  our  sorrows.  The  first 
grumble  would  be  about  dressing-rooms, 
and  I  don't  wonder  at  it,  for  the  noble 
knights  of  the  sock  and  buskin  had  had 
such  an  easy  time  during  the  day  that 
dressing  in  those  stuffy  little  rooms  injured 
their  feelings.  Where  they  made  the  mis- 
take— to  my  mind — was  in  imagining  that 
Charles  and  I  were  magicians  who  could, 
by  some  occult  power,  transform  the  little 
holes  into  large,  commodious,  airy  spaces, 
where  they  could  keep  up  in  a  fitting 
manner  the  atmosphere  of  luxurious  ease 
in  which  they  had  revelled  during  the  day. 
However,  I  must  say  that  we  would  meet 
their  disapproval  with  a  vast  amount  of 
stoicism.  In  fact,  we  would  make  little 


How  I  "  Ran  Props'1      317 

forcible  remarks  to  them  that  were  calcu- 
lated to  heighten  it. 

Then  the  star  would  begin,  but,  to  tell 
the  honest  truth,  his  starship  was  less 
of  a  grumbler  than  any  of  them,  for  he 
only  grumbled  from  an  artistic  standpoint. 
He  would  stand  in  the  entrance  during  a 
performance  and  upbraid  me  in  scathing 
terms  for  my  dilatory  and  stupid  ways.  He 
would  analyse  and  expound  the  value  of 
properties  to  actors  and  the  acting  art. 
He  would  say  that  I  killed  his  piece  ;  in 
fact,  he  would  show  up  my  shortcomings 
in  a  vivid  and  powerful  manner.  He 
played  the  part  of  on  old,  rum-soaked  bum 
— his  own  creation — and  he  played  it  well. 
It  was  wonderful  to  see  the  way  in  which 
he  would  arise  from  his  bumliness  and 
denounce  me  the  moment  he  left  the  stage 
for  not  having  his  hand-props  in  the  right 
place. 

One  night,  in  St  Paul,  Minnesota,  the 
star  discharged  me  for  missing  "crashes," 
and  telling  him  to  retire  to  the  "  Cimmerian 
depths  of  Hades."  I  didn't  classicise 
the  phrase,  but  gave  it  out  to  him  in  strong 


318          A  Man  Adrift 

Saxon.  I  was  beginning  to  be  tired  of 
the  whole  business.  A  man  can't  hold  hot 
iron  for  ever.  But  the  manager  interposed 
and  it  ended  in  my  being  forgiven  after  the 
show. 

But  all  things  have  an  end,  and  after 
many  trials,  tribulations,  and,  I  might  add, 
vituperations,  I  arrived  in  New  York. 
My  ideal  was  realised.  I  had  got  to  the 
cold,  muggy  East. 


XXIII.— THE  BOWERY 

THE  Bowery  is  the  main  artery  of  the  east 
side  of  New  York.  Along  it  move  the 
people  who  dwell  in  poverty.  It  is  the 
promenade  of  the  doomed — the  breathing 
spot  for  those  that  live  in  the  gloom. 
The  atmosphere  seems  charged  with 
something  that  no  one  shall  define.  The 
people  possess  a  grim  sense  of  humour, 
but  it  is  the  humour  of  recklessness — that 
terrible  humour  that  has  moved  the  Paris 
gamin  to  make  history.  There  is  a  differ- 
ence, subtle,  but  distinct,  between  the 
crowd  that  moves  along  the  Bowery  and 
the  crowds  that  move  along  like  places  in 
Old  World  great  cities.-  The  difference 
lies  in  the  fact  that  here  you  will  find 
a  suggestion  of  blending,  of  fraternisation 
of  race.  You  will  find  cosmopolitanism. 
There  is  a  feverish  activity  everywhere. 


320          A  Man  Adrift 

You  are  behind  the  scenes  in  the  theatre 
of  New  World  civilisation.  Refuse  barrels 
stand  on  corners.  Here  the  street  is  torn 
up  for  repairs.  The  elevated  trains  rush 
and  puff ;  horses  stumble  and  clatter  ;  carts 
crunch  and  rumble  along.  The  shriek  of 
the  locomotive  and  the  jangle  of  horse-car 
bells  mingle.  Drivers  swear. 

Here  the  policeman  stalks  along  swing- 
ing his  club.  He  is  monarch  of  all  he 
surveys — the  rajah  of  the  street.  He  has 
been  known  to  club  people  into  insensi- 
bility and  afterwards  arrest  them  for 
obstructing  his  club.  He  possesses  the 
contempt  for  the  liberty  of  the  pedestrian 
that  belongs  peculiarly  to  the  American 
policeman.  As  a  rule  he  is  an  offensive 
blackguard  and  bully  who  is  skilled  in  the 
fine  art  of  levying  blackmail.  But  he  is 
human  after  all.  He  has  been  known  to 
give  hard-up  men  money  wherewith  to  get 
food  and  shelter.  He  is  the  ornament  of 
the  Bowery.  His  buttons  shine  beauti- 
fully. His  club,  though  hard,  is  nicely 
polished. 

A   black-eyed,  sinewy    Italian   presides 


The  Bowery  321 

over  a  fruit-stand.  The  land  of  the  glorious 
sun  and  the  sparkling  waters  he  has  left 
for  ever  behind.  He  is  seeking  his 
fortune  in  the  Cosmopolis.  Sliced  pine- 
apples, oranges,  pears  and  fruits  of  all  kinds 
cover  his  stall.  His  shirt  is  open  because 
of  the  heat,  and  he  is  dreaming,  dozing,  as 
the  life  whirls  by.  A  tender  expression  is 
softening  the  lines  of  his  bronzed  face. 
Memories,  perhaps,  of  the  long  ago  are 
awakening  within  him.  Let  us  draw  near ! 
Ah,  he  is  humming  softly  an  aria  from  "II 
Trovatore !  "  He  is  in  the  Scala  of  Milan 
—listening,  perhaps,  to  Pifferini  or  Cam- 
panini — Pifferini,  who  on  some  nights  sang 
like  an  angel,  who  on  other  nights  could 
not  sing  at  all. 

Here  is  a  picture  that  is  beautiful. 
Johnnie  is  making  love  to  Mamie  in  a 
doorway.  Johnnie  drives  an  express 
waggon  for  ten  dollars  a  week,  and 
Mamie — well,  Mamie  works  in  a  cigar 
factory.  Neither  of  them  has  ever  lived 
outside  the  East  Side  of  New  York.  This 
may  be  seen  at  a  glance.  The  girl's  eyes 
are  cast  shyly  down,  while  Johnnie  presses 


322          A  Man  Adrift 

close  up  to  her,  and  tells  her,  perhaps,  that 
he  can  marry  her  next  fall,  because  he 
expects  a  rise  in  his  salary.  They  are 
drinking  the  first  delicious  draughts  of  love. 
Heedless  are  they  of  the  people  in  the 
passing  crowd  who  stare  at  them. 

There  saunters  the  working  man,  who 
labours  many  hours  a  day  so  that  he  may 
eat  bread.  He  wears  a  starched  shirt  and 
a  neat  suit  of  clothes,  but  you  can  tell  what 
he  is  at  a  glance.  The  weary  look  in  the 
face  and  the  droop  of  the  shoulders  speak 
it  more  plainly  than  words. 

Look  at  the  Irishwoman  with  the  basket. 
She  is  walking  along  the  Bowery  to  the 
store  where  she  gets  her  provisions  for  her 
family.  She  has  a  handkerchief  tied 
around  her  head,  and  a  look  of  shrewd 
bargaining  is  in  her  face.  She  might  have 
dropped  here  from  Galway.  Shrewd  bar- 
gaining and  close  figuring  are  the  only 
methods  by  which  she  can  make  ends  meet. 
When  one  has  four  or  five  little  children  at 
home,  and  a  husband  who  earns  but  a  dollar 
and  a  quarter  a  day,  it  is  necessary  to  look 
closely  after  the  pennies.  Again,  Pat 


The  Bowery  323 

receives  no  wages  from  the  contractor 
when  he  has  to  stop  work  on  account  of 
the  rain.  And  if  he  doesn't  work  harder 
than  the  Italian  alongside  of  him,  he  is  apt 
to  be  fired  from  his  job.  Also,  he  needs  ten 
cents  for  his  growler  of  beer  every  night. 

Up  comes  the  ward  politician.  He  is 
jolly  looking  of  face  and  big  and  tight  of 
girth.  His  smile  is  knowing  and  satisfied, 
for  he  revels  in  the  fat  of  the  land.  A 
diamond  flashes  from  his  shirt  front,  his 
pockets  are  filled  with  money,  and  his  taste 
in  dress  is  loud.  His  heelers  get  in  his 
way  to  catch  his  smiles.  This  is  the  man 
who  will  tell  you  that  money  talks.  He 
knows  as  much  about  our  present  social 
system  as  Herbert  Spencer  and  all  the 
thinkers  and  writers  upon  sociology  put 
together.  He  gets  the  above  system  down 
fine  and  stands  upon  it  for  his  own 
benefit.  His  method  has  the  merit 
of  being  simple.  So  simple  that  it 
needn't  be  discussed.  Still,  in  a  way, 
he  is  a  good  fellow — that  is,  if  things  go 
his  way.  He  possesses  magnetism  enough 
to  become  either  a  successful  bunco-steerer, 


324          A  Man  Adrift 

or  an  after-dinner  orator  who  is  eloquent  in 
the  interests  of  trusts.  Politics,  however, 
pay  him  better.  His  especial  virtue  is  that 
he  always  buys  the  drinks.  In  fact,  this 
is  the  chief  secret  of  his  simple  method  of 
running  the  affairs  of  this  great  city. 

Fakers  stand  on  the  corners  of  the 
streets.  They  are  selling  laces,  hand- 
kerchiefs, cheap  jewellery,  the  useful, 
though  modest,  suspender,  and  other  things 
too  numerous  to  mention.  They  thrust  the 
articles  towards  you  as  you  pass.  Won- 
drous bargains  may  be  procured  for  a  no- 
thing. So  says  the  faker.  And  the  faker 
— where  does  he  hail  from  ?  He  hails  from 
all  spots.  In  fact,  he  is  like  the  passing 
crowd.  His  home  is  wherever  he  hangs 
his  hat.  He  may  be  a  wily  Greek  who 
has  descended  in  a  direct  line  from  the 
divinely  subtle  Socrates ;  he  may  be 
a  Jew  who  is  a  descendant  of  a  black 
sheep  of  one  of  the  Lost  Tribes  of  Israel ; 
or  he  may  be  a  ward  politician  whose 
magnetism  has  gone  back  on  him,  and 
who  is  certainly  descended  from  an  Irish 
king. 


The  Bowery  325 

Here  are  the  dime  museums,  where 
you  can  see  everything  from  a  mammoth 
to  a  protoplasm  on  payment  of  ten  cents. 
And  the  gaudy,  brilliant  fronts  of  the 
cheap  theatres.  In  them  you  may  sit  and 
gaze  while  the  blood-and-thunder  drama 
unrolls  itself. 

So  life  goes  on  in  the  Bowery. 

****** 

At  night  I  used  to  wander  along  the 
Bowery  and  think  over  things.  I  had  a 
small  room  in  the  top  of  an  old  house 
that  lay  in  a  street  just  off  it.  This 
house  had  been  built  in  colonial  times, 
and  about  it  was  an  odd,  desolate  air. 

I  had  left  the  stage  long  ago.  I  re- 
cognised that  I  had  no  talent  in  that 
direction. 

I  used  to  cook  for  myself  in  the  garret 
where  I  lived.  Whenever  I  managed  to 
get  a  little  money  I  would  lay  in  a  stock 
of  provisions  at  the  delicatessen  shop 
across  the  road. 

I  was  getting  tired  of  America.  Its 
air  of  blatant,  sham  democracy  disgusted 
me.  When  labouring  men  were  struggling 


326          A  Man  Adrift 

for  the  right  to  live  they  were  shot  and 
crushed  down  by  the  military  with  more 
mercilessness  and  for  less  provocation  than 
they  would  be  under  the  most  despotic 
and  ruthless  Government  in  Europe.  If 
any  American  takes  exception  to  this 
statement  I  can  only  ask  him  if  he  has 
forgotten  the  affair  at  Homestead,  and 
the  hideous  travesty  of  justice  concerning 
the  alleged  Anarchists  in  Chicago,  and 
other  like  instances.  I  have  known  people 
to  get  a  year's  imprisonment  in  New  York 
for  saying  things  that  they  might"  say 
with  impunity  in  Hyde  Park  in  London. 
In  fact,  the  English  policeman  would  not 
allow  them  to  be  interrupted  while  they 
were  giving  forth  their  ideas.  I  am  not 
saying  that  England  is  a  perfect  place 
to  live  in.  That,  of  course,  would  be 
nonsense.  But  I  do  say,  from  personal 
and  absolute  knowledge,  that  England  is 
a  freer  and  more  democratic  country  than 
is  America. 

I  was  beginning  to  long  to  go  back 
again  to  England.  After  all,  it  was  the 
place  I  had  come  from.  And,  above  all,  I 


The  Bowery  327 

longed  to  go  to  London.  I  wanted  to  try 
my  luck  there.  The  idea  of  being  in  the 
world's  great  town  fascinated  me. 

I  could  easily  have  managed  to  go  to 
England  as  a  sailor,  but  somehow  I  did 
not  care  for  the  idea.  So  I  managed  to 

get  myself  a  steerage  ticket. 

*  *  «  *  *  * 

I  was  sorry  afterwards  that  I  had  not 
gone  as  a  sailor,  for  we  had  heavy  weather 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  necessarily  the 
steerage  passengers  were  kept*  below. 
Thus  the  air  of  the  steerage  became  bad 
because  of  the  impossibility  of  opening  up 
hatchways  and  port-holes. 

I  found  there  were  other  sailors  beside 
myself  in  the  steerage.  They  were  the 
crews  of  three  sailing  ships.  They  had 
been  paid  off  in  New  York,  and  their 
idea  was  to  go  to  Liverpool  so  that  they 
could  ship  to  Australia.  They  were  a 
jolly  lot  of  lads,  and  I  was  glad  to  be 
with  them.  They  brought  me  into  touch 
with  the  old  times.  One  of  them  especi- 
ally was  a  most  interesting  character.  He 
had  followed  the  sea  for  twenty  years,  and 


328          A  Man  Adrift 

knew  of  hardly  anything  save  ports  and 
the  ways  of  ships  and  grog-shops.  His 
name  was  Myles  Hand,  and  he  hailed 
from  Liverpool.  He  was  the  ideal 
English  sailor,  the  type  that  Marry  at 
immortalized.  He  was  well  able  to  sing 
and  dance,  and  in  person  he  was  well 
built  of  frame,  good  looking  of  face,  and 
had  blue,  well-opened  eyes.  The  eyes 
of  sailors  are  always  well  opened.  The 
looking  out  and  the  continual  watching 
causes  this. 

When  we  were  near  the  end  of  the 
voyage  I  got  up  a  concert,  and  put  Myles' 
name  first  on  the  programme.  The 
writing  of  this  programme  was  a  great 
bother  to  me,  because  of  the  rolling  of 
the  ship.  When  it  was  finished  Myles 
got  some  mustard  from  the  steward  and 
plastered  it  up.  Then  he  stood  off,  and 
looked  at  his  own  name  admiringly.  I 
had  put  him  down  for  a  baritone  solo. 

At  last  we  were  running  up  the  Mersey, 
and  Liverpool  was  coming  up  in  the 
distance.  After  years  had  passed  I  was 
seeing  it  again.  I  was  glad  to  see  it, 


The  Bowery  329 

even  though  I  was  poor  as  when  I  left 
it.  I  had  gathered  nothing  but  experi- 
ence. 

And  the  next  day  I  started  for  London. 


XXIV.— NO  PLACE  TO  SLEEP 

THE  hour  of  midnight  tolls  out  and 
London  becomes  strange  and  quiet  It 
becomes  at  once  alive  and  dead.  The 
people  leave  its  streets.  And  soon  there 
is  nothing  left  but  shadows.  Gigantic, 
weird  shadows.  Nameless  shadows  of 
the  past  and  present.  Monstrous,  chang- 
ing, weaving. 

In  the  waters  of  the  old  river  are  re- 
flections of  a  strange  and  glorious  beauty 
mingling  with  shadows  foul,  black,  and 
unspeakable.  Terrifying  shadows.  For- 
bidding, louring ;  and  waving  and  moving 
into  frightful  shapes. 

London  of  the  shadow.  Formless,  dis- 
torted London.  Silence,  blackness  and 
dim  light  unite.  Everything  is  vague, 
uncertain,  and  elusive.  Here  is  mystery. 
330 


No  Place  to  Sleep        331 

Here  is  darkness  and  sadness  and  the 
unknown. 

London  in  shadow. 

And  you  walk  on — on — your  footsteps 
sounding  lone  and  strange.  It  is  as 
if  you  were  in  some  vast,  deserted  city — 
some  mighty,  ghost-haunted  labyrinth. 

Boom  ! 

The  great  bell  breaks  forth,  marking 
the  hour  of  one.  Mighty  is  the  tone,  full 
of  menace  and  sullen  power.  It  voices 
the  genius  of  the  great  English  nation — 
that  dominant  genius  that  has  crushed 
and  colonised,  that  has  spread  itself 
wherever  wind  blows  or  water  dashes. 

Sweeping  goes  the  tone  of  the  great 
bell  over  hovel  and  palace — over  the  black 
sullen  waters — over  destitution  and  mag- 
nificence and  misery. 

It  startles  the  poor  miserables  who  to- 
night have  no  place  to  sleep.  Those  who 
are  adrift.  They  sit  up  on  the  benches 
where  they  have  been  lying.  They 
shudder.  The  great  brazen  tone  is  full 
of  menace  for  them. 

They  are  poor  human  shadows.     They 


332          A  Man  Adrift 

come  from  out  of  the  great  black,  sinister 
shadow  of  the  town.  They  are  ghosts 
of  wrecked  lives.  There  is  no  one  to 
help  them.  There  is  no  one  to  give 
them  shelter.  There'  is  no  one  to  give 
them  warmth  or  food  or  love.  They  are 
lost.  They  are  but  shadows. 

Why  have  they  to  starve  and  shiver  in 
the  midst  of  plenty  ?  Over  yonder  is  a 
palace  wherein  a  thousand  such  as  these 
might  be  housed.  Over  yonder  is  a 
church — mark  you !  a  church ! — wherein 
shelter  might  be  had.  What  would 
Christ  say  to  this? 

But  Christ  is  dead. 

And  you  think  that  if  Christ  lived  now 
in  this  Christian  civilisation  He  would 
mayhap  be  lying  yonder — starved  and 
hungry  and  cold.  Yonder  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Sphinx. 

Two!  The  bell  has  broken  forth. 
And  you  turn  up  from  the  river  and  walk 
towards  the  Strand. 

How  quiet  it  is,  this  Strand.  In  the 
daytime  it  is  filled  with  an  ever-flowing 
tide  of  humans.  They  rush  and  hurry 


No  Place  to  Sleep        333 

along,  and  lounge  and  idle  along.  Horses, 
vans,  and  cabs  and  carts  clatter,  crunch, 
and  rumble  along.  There  is  hurry  and 
bustle  and  excitement. 

But  now  is  the  Strand  dead.  It  is 
under  the  dominion  of  the  shadows. 
No  one  is  to  be  seen.  Nothing  is  to  be 
heard  but  your  own  footfalls. 

You  go  back  to  the  river.  The  dark, 
strange  old  river.  How  black  are  the 
shadows.  And  you  stop  and  think. 
Soon  it  will  be  light.  Soon  it  will 
be  day.  But  meanwhile  are  shadows. 
Shadows.  Working  in  the  loom  af  fate 
Monstrous,  changing,  weaving. 

****** 

To  be  in  a  great  town  at  night  and  to 
have  no  place  to  sleep  is  hard.  You 
look  around.  On  all  sides  are  houses 
where  people  are  resting  comfortably  in 
bed.  But  there  is  no  bed  for  you.  So 
you  wander  through  the  streets  aimlessly. 
How  cold  everything  is!  How  cold  is 
human  nature.  Here  is  luxury  and  com- 
fort on  all  sides.  Food  in  plenty  is  here, 
but  you  may  not  touch  it.  Warmth  is 


334          A  Man  Adrift 

here.  Rest  is  here.  But  you  must  go 
on.  Ever  on.  Like  one  who  is  doomed 
or  damned. 

You  are  an  outcast,  because  you  are 
guilty  of  that  crime  of  crimes — poverty. 
And  you  begin  to  think  and  to  wish 
many  strange  things.  Aye,  you  think, 
it  matters  not  if  you  be  the  dullest 
clod.  For  suffering  and  loneliness  breed 
thought. 

Perhaps  you  will  sit  down  on  a  bench, 
but  you  may  not  sit  for  long.  The 
policeman  will  come  and  order  you  to 
move  on.  Move  on!  Where? 

Perhaps  you  will  summon  up  courage 
enough  to  ask  a  passer-by  for  alms. 
It  is  better  for  you  not  to  do  so,  how- 
ever, for  the  chance  of  your  getting  any- 
thing is  small.  And  you  may  be  given 
in  charge. 

So  you  move  on. 

And  your  life  will  arise  before  you. 
You  will  think  of  the  good  times  you 
have  had.  You  will  think  of  your  future, 
but  you  will  not  think  of  your  future  long 
— for  the  present  is  too  real  and  pressing. 


No  Place  to  Sleep        335 

Of  course  it  is  all  your  own  fault.  It 
always  is  one's  own  fault  when  luck  goes 
against  one.  It  is  always  one's  own  fault 
for  being  struck  down.  You  should  have 
been  strong  enough  to  stand  up. 

You  should  have  done  such  and  such 
a  thing  at  such  and  such  a  time.  You 
had  no  right  to  back  that  fellow's  bill ; 
or  you  had  no  right  to  leave  that  job  be- 
cause the  foreman  bullied  you  ;  or  you — 
but  you  stop.  What  is  the  use  of  think- 
ing in  this  strain  ?  It  doesn't  help  you 
one  bit.  You  are  here  in  the  dark  streets, 
and  no  one  cares  whether  you  live  or 
die. 

The  bells  ring  out  the  hours.  Time 
has  for  you  a  significance  it  never  had 
before.  It  will  be  all  right  in  a  hundred 
years  from  now,  you  think.  You  will 
be  dead  then,  and  will  not  care.  You 
will  have  plenty  of  rest.  You  will  be 
allowed  to  sleep.  You  will  be  as  fine 
a  man  then  as  a  king.  You  will  really 
count  for  as  much. 

A  hundred  years  from  now.  But  what 
a  long  time  till  then! 


336          A  Man  Adrift 

And  it  may  be  that  you  will  wander 
by  the  palace  where  lives  the  Queen. 
How  fine  and  grand  is  this  palace !  how 
spacious  must  be  the  rooms !  Herein  a 
thousand  like  you  might  sleep.  Can  it 
be,  you  will  think,  that  there  is  a  differ- 
ence in  human  blood  after  all?  Philo- 
sophers say  that  there  is  not,  but  surely 
there  must  be.  Philosophers  don't  know 
everything.  Their  logic  is  all  very  well 
when  you  have  wine,  a  good  cigar,  and  a 
bright  fire  before  which  to  thrust  your 
feet.  But  it  counts  for  nothing  when  you 
are  hungry,  when  you  have  no  place  to 
sleep. 

And  it  may  be  that  the  face  of  a  woman 
will  arise  before  you — a  woman  who  loved 
you  in  the  old  days.  What  would  she  say 
if  she  saw  you  in  this  plight  ?  Why,  her 
dear  heart  would  break.  She  would  take 
you  to  her  arms,  unkempt  and  begrimed 
though  you  are.  She  would  kiss  you, 
and  cheer  you  up,  and  make  you  feel  a 
man  again.  Dear,  sweet  love  of  the  fine 
old  days  ! 

But  she  is  dead. 


No  Place  to  Sleep        337 

And  so  you  go  on  and  on,  and  listen 
to  the  bells  as  they  strike  the  hours. 
They  are  the  only  friends  you  have,  cold 
though  their  voices  are,  for  they  do  not 
blame  you  for  being  unfortunate — as  man 
blames  you.  No,  they  pay  no  heed.  You 
are  the  same  to  them  as  any  other  man. 
They  are  impartial.  And  of  all  things 
misfortune  loves  impartiality.  It  is  a  finer 
thing  than  sympathy. 

Dear  old  bells !  I  love  them,  for  it  has 
been  my  lot  to  wander  at  dead  of  night 
through  a  great  city  because  I  had  no 
money  to  pay  for  a  bed.  And  I  assert 
that  no  man  knows  what  it  is  without 
he  has  experienced  it.  I  have  heard 
sympathetic,  well-off  people  talk  feelingly 
of  the  hardships  of  the  poor.  I  have 
heard  them  in  drawing-rooms. 

Yes,  these  people  talk,  but  they  don't 
know  what  they  are  talking  about.  And 
they  are  not  really  sympathetic  with  the 
poor.  They  only  think  they  are.  No 
one  has  any  real  sympathy  with  the  poor 
but  the  poor.  There  is  something  in  class 
after  all.  If  you  are  a  tramp  and  a  gaol- 


338          A  Man  Adrift 

bird,  it  is  better  for  you  to  chum  in  wit> 
tramps  and  gaol-birds.  They  won't  patro 
nise  you  and  hurt  your  feelings.  Yes- 
class  is  the  thing.  Keep  to  your  class. 

Sometimes  it  is  said  that  low-down,  un 
fortunate  people  don't  realize  to  the  ful 
the  degradation  of  their  lives. 

This  is  a  lie.  These  poor  people  do 
realize  their  degradation.  They  realize 
that  they  are  dogs  and  slaves,  but  their 
way  of  saying  that  they  know  they  are 
dogs  and  slaves  is  not  what  is  called  an 
elegant  way.  It  is  not  a  drawing-room 
way.  It  is  the  way  that  smacks  of  the 
slum,  and  the  foul  alley,  and  the  gaol,  and 
the  gutter.  And,  after  all,  one  way  of 
saying  the  same  thing  is  much  the  same 
as  another  way.  There  isn't  as  big  a 
difference  between  illiterate  and  literate 
people  as  is  generally  supposed.  Illiterate 
people  are  on  the  whole  more  intelligent 
than  literate  people — because  they  are 
brought  more  in  touch  with  the  iron  facts 
of  life. 

Yes,  the  poor  homeless  man  who  walks 
the  streets  at  night  is  forced  to  think,  even 


No  Place  to  Sleep        339 

if  he  be  ever  such  a  clod.  And  he  is 
forced  to  think  hard.  And  he  knows 
more  about  what  walking  the  streets 
means  than  even  the  most  sympathetic 
upholder  of  charitable  organisations. 

A  word  as  to  charitable  organisations. 

They  are  no  good.  At  least,  I,  who 
have  had  need  of  them,  have  found  them 
to  be  no  good.  And  the  proof  of  the 
pudding  is  in  the  eating. 

Yes,  I  assert  that  they  are  no  good. 
This  statement  is  sweeping — but  listen  to 
a  cold  fact.  If  you  are  hungry  and 
homeless,  and  apply  to  one  of  them  for 
relief  from  misery  they  will  do  nothing 
for  you.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about, 
for  I  have  applied  to  them. 

Of  course,  there  is  an  excellent  reason 
for  their  not  helping  the  destitute,  just  as 
there  is  an  excellent  reason  for  everything. 

The  destitute  man  may  not  have  a  satis- 
factory pedigree  ;  he  may  be  a  criminal  ; 
he  may  be  undeserving ;  he  may  be  just 
a  hair's-breadth  beyond  their  alleged  scope 
of  action.  Again,  he  may  not  possess  a 
spotless  reputation.  To  get  help  from  a 


340          A  Man   Adrift 

charitable  organisation  you  must  possess 
a  spotless  reputation.  You  must  be  good 
and -worthy,  and  able  to  stand  searching 
cross-examination. 

And,  above  all,  you  must  be  able  to  fast 
and  do  without  sleep  for  a  month  after 
your  application. 

Still,  it  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody 
good.  The  charity  organisations  provide 
fat  salaries  for  the  officials  who  run  them. 

If  you  are  ever  destitute,  steer  clear  of 
them ;  for  if  they  do  take  you  in  and  give 
you  a  piece  of  bread,  they  will  take  more 
than  the  worth  of  it  out  of  you.  It  is 
much  better  for  you  to  go  out  on  the 
Embankment. 

They  talk  of  the  cloven  hoof  of  wicked- 
ness, but  I  tell  you  it  is  as  nothing  compared 
with  the  iron  heel  of  organised  charity. 

No,  if  a  man  ever  asks  you  for  four- 
pence  for  his  night's  lodging,  give  it  to 
him  if  you  can.  Even  though  you  feel 
almost  sure  that  he'll  go  and  get  a  drink 
with  it.  Supposing  he  does.  What  then  ? 
Doesn't  the  poor  chap  need  a  drink  to 
cheer  him  up  a  little?  See,  he  is  dirty 


No  Place  to  Sleep        341 

and  hungry  and  half-starved  and  badly 
clothed.  He  is  worse  off  than  a  homeless 
dog.  No  one  has  any  use  for  him.  But 
remember  that  he  has  feelings,  that  he  has 
a  heart,  that  he  has  red  blood  just  like  you 
have.  He  may  have  been  a  man  who 
once  held  a  good  position.  Or  he  may 
have — but  never  mind  what  he  was.  It 
is  what  he  is.  He  is  a  man  who  needs 
help.  Christ  would  have  helped  him  and 
asked  no  questions.  Do  thou  likewise. 

People  often  say  than  any  man  can  get 
work  if  he  wishes  to  work.  This  is  false. 
The  army  of  unemployed  increases  day  by 
day.  I  am  not  going  to  argue  as  to  why 
this  is.  I  only  state  a  fact. 

No,  give  the  poor  fellow  fourpence,  and 
give  him  the  price  of  a  drink  if  you  can 
spare  it.  And  you  will  be  doing  an  act  of 
which  Christ  would  have  approved. 

The  hardest  time  of  all  for  a  homeless 
man,  who  is  tramping  the  dark  streets, 
is  at  about  half-past  two  in  the  morning. 
Then  everything  is  dead  quiet.  The  city 
sleeps.  Its  great  rumble  has  gone  down 
altogether.  The  tramp  of  the  policeman, 


342          A  Man  Adrift 

as  he  goes  from  house  to  house  trying  the 
doors,  seems  to  make  the  loneliness  all 
the  more  lonely.  The  poor  outcast  must 
keep  out  of  the  policeman's  way,  for  the 
policeman  is  his  enemy. 

The  policeman  is  the  embodiment  of  the 
humanity  of  our  civilisation. 

Aye,  this  is  indeed  a  hard  time  for  the 
outcast.  His  vitality  is  at  its  lowest  ebb. 
He  would  give  his  soul  to  lie  down  and 
sleep,  even  on  the  pavement.  But  he 
may  not  do  so.  He  must  move  on. 

He  must  move  on. 
********* 

And  at  last  dawn  breaks. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


•jfl 


50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


3 2106  00053  7024 


